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of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the

poor in large type.

 

Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try

to think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and

tying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly

comfortable and toasted his feet.

 

Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of the

storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too

philosophically.

 

Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to

Carrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb

him.

 

The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwood

took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do a

few other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to the

grocery. He really thought nothing of these little services in

connection with their true significance. He felt as if he were not

wholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while

about the house.

 

On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was

over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would

be.

 

It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way.

Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He went

across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on

Broadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down

in Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he

changed his mind.

 

"What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "I

couldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I

guess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and

waited again, wondering what he could do.

 

While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well dressed man

passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his

memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognized Cargill, the owner

of the large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen

at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how

this individual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was

also on the instant clear.

 

Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty he

felt.

 

"Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he

had not recognized him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided

this meeting.

 

"Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?"

 

"Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about.

"Stopping here?"

 

"No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." "I knew you had

left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you."

 

"Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.

 

"Doing well, I suppose?"

 

"Excellent."

 

"Glad to hear it."

 

They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.

 

"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you.

So long."

 

Hurstwood nodded his head.

 

"Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that

would happen."

 

He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered

1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The

day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to

feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth

Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to

walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery

of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if

he were catching cold.

 

Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no day

to be out; he would go home.

 

Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.

 

"It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his coat

and changed his shoes.

 

That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverish

until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him.

He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-

colored bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about the

eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to her.

She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about the

man held her aloof.

 

Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested

he go to bed.

 

"You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll open

your bed for you now."

 

"All right," he said.

 

As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.

 

"What a life! What a life!" was her one thought.

 

Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and

reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In

the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and

cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in

a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent

to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.

 

This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she

lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the

fact.

 

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His

voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its gruesome

quality.

 

"Nothing," said Carrie, weakly.

 

"You've been crying," he said.

 

"I haven't, either," she answered.

 

It was not for love of him, that he knew.

 

"You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come out

all right."

 

In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed

in. The Italian news dealer now delivered the morning papers, and

these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but

meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy

sitting about hotel corridors.

 

Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going

anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything.

 

Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things.

She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her

little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however,

before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing.

Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. Every

Tuesday Carrie asked for her money.

 

"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one Tuesday

morning.

 

"I do the best I can," said Carrie.

 

Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:

 

"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?"

 

"I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie.

 

"They say you can get things lots cheaper there."

 

Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things which

she did not like at all.

 

"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day.

 

"Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak is

twenty-two cents."

 

"That's steep, isn't it?" he answered.

 

So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days,

it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and

remembered them. His errand-running capacity also improved. It began

in a small way, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning,

was stopped by him.

 

"Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked.

 

"Over to the baker's," she answered.

 

"I'd just as leave go for you," he said.

 

She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the corner

for the papers.

 

"Is there anything you want?" he would say.

 

By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the

weekly payment of twelve dollars.

 

"You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time.

 

"How much?" he asked.

 

She understood well enough what it meant.

 

"Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man."

 

The same day he said:

 

"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-five

cents a bushel. I'll trade with him."

 

Carrie heard this with indifference.

 

"All right," she said.

 

Then it came to be:

 

"George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some meat of

some kind for dinner."

 

He would find out what she needed and order.

 

Accompanying this plan came skimpiness.

 

"I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon

with his papers. "We never seem to eat very much."

 

These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened

her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day

and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have

no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it

might be four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do

nothing but view him with gnawing contempt.

 

It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his

way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only five

hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could

stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting around

the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came first

with the bad days. Only once he apologized in the very beginning:

 

"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around." Eventually these

became the permanent thing.

 

Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of

ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to

nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the

shave was satisfactory, patronized regularly. Later still, he put off

shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once

a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see.

 

Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in

Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He had

some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when

dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago,

but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He

never tried. He did not even consult the ads in the papers any more.

 

Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.

 

"What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one

evening, standing around in the kitchen.

 

"To make it good, of course," she answered.

 

"Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested.

 

"You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered.

 

He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled

in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her.

 

That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to

bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as

usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's

absence.

 

"That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up."

 

He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was

not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.

 

Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling

prevailing, Carrie said:

 

"I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache."

 

"All right," said Hurstwood.

 

The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.

 

This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.

 

"All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let her

sleep alone."

 

 

Chapter XXXVI

A GRIM RETROGRESSION--THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE

 

The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had

not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called

on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her

address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long

as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled

to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an

indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of

avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not finding any

convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to

her friend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence,

thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as

lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in Fourteenth

Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was there for the same

purpose.

 

"Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance,

"where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've been

wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I----"

 

"I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Of

all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm

living down town here. I've been intending to come and see you. Where

are you living now?"

 

"In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue--

218. Why don't you come and see me?"

 

"I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know I

ought to. It's a shame. But you know----"

 

"What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance.

 

"Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West."

 

"Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?"

 

"Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time."

 

"Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while noting

that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address, too,"

she added to herself. "They must be hard up."

 

Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.

 

"Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a store.

 

When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He

seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard

was at least four days old.

 

"Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?"

 

She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation

was becoming unbearable.

 

Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:

 

"Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?"

 

"No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man."

 

Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.

 

"I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time.

 

"Did, eh?" he answered.

 

"They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so

nice."

 

"Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned

Hurstwood. "He's got a soft job."

 

Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of

infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.

 

"She said she thought she'd call here some day."

 

"She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood, with

a kind of sarcasm.

 

The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side.

 

"Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude.

"Perhaps I didn't want her to come."

 

"She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep up

with her pace unless they've got a lot of money."

 

"Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard."

 

"He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the

inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll

happen. He may get down like anybody else."

 

There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye

seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their

defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart--not considered.

 

This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and

independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other

people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him.

Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search,

he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:

 

"I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things coming

to me if I want to go after them."

 

It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a

shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with

any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just

right for being outside and doing something.

 

On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms

down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about

the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly

commonplaces.

 

He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many a

friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when

that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game-not the all in all.

Now, he thought of playing.

 

"I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice."

 

It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several

times before he acted upon it. The poker room which he first invaded

was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries. He had been

there before. Several games were going. These he watched for a time

and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved.

 

"Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled

up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study

of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.

 

Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection

without progression or pairs. The pot was opened.

 

"I pass," he said.

 

On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals

did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few

dollars to the good.

 

The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit.

This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a

better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was

a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were

located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this

individual, whose bets came with a sangfroid which, if a bluff, was

excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep,

at least, the cool demeanor with which, in olden times, he deceived

those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts

and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could

not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and

would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he

choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much--his hand was

excellent. Why not raise it five more?

 

"I raise you three," said the youth.

 

"Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.

 

"Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.

 

"Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge,

taking out a bill.

 

A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the

chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.

 

"Five again," said the youth.

 

Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him. Sixty

dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the

thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would

not trust to this fine hand any longer.

 

"I call," he said.

 

"A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards.

 

Hurstwood's hand dropped.

 

"I thought I had you," he said, weakly.

 

The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without

first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.

 

"Three hundred and forty dollars," he said.

 

With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.

 

Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.

 

Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild

protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day,

coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.

 

"What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie.

 

"What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked.

 

"Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some one

might call."

 

"Who?" he said.

 

"Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie.

 

"She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly.

 

This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.

 

"Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should

think he would be ashamed of himself."

 

The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call.

It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the

commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and

agonizing distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-

thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly

aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him.

 

"Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?"

 

"How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes.

His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether

to invite her in or not.

 

"Is your wife at home?" she inquired.

 

"No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be back

shortly."

 

"No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realizing the change of it all. "I'm really

very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I

couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me."

 

"I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at

her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he

sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.

 

Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance

going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.

 

"Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood.

 

"Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance."

 

"Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair. This cut

Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.

 

"If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door."

 

"Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness.

"What did she have to say?"

 

"Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay."

 

"And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long

reserve.

 

"What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming, did

I?"

 

"You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was

coming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I

think this is just terrible."

 

"Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You couldn't

associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money.

 

"Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely.

 

"Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd

committed----"

 

Carrie interrupted:

 

"It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault is

it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with.

Why don't you get out and look for work?"

 

This was a thunderbolt in camp.

 

"What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the rent,

don't I? I furnish the----"

 

"Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was