he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, “how did you make out?”
“Oh,” said Carrie, “it’s pretty hard. I don’t like it.”
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she was both weary and disappointed.
“What sort of work is it?” he asked, lingering a moment as he turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
“Running a machine,” answered Carrie.
To Carrie, the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: “Oh, well stand it a little while. You will get something better,” put now this was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollar for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round living with these people.
She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below.
The life of the streets contained for a long time to interest Carrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes or enjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention.
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two nights she found herself too tried to walk home, and expended car fare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She went to bed one night before Hanson.
Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her acclimatization had been more gradual – less rigid. She would have done better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.
On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella. Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a quarter of her small store to pay for it.
“What did you do that for, Carrie?” asked Minnie, when she saw it.
“Oh, I need one,” said Carrie.
“You foolish girl.”
Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.
One the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four dollar less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week. She brooded over this until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
“I’m going up the street for a walk,” she said after supper.
“Not alone, are you?” asked Hanson.
“Yes,” returned Carrie.
“I wouldn’t,” said Minnie.
“I want to see something,” said Carrie, and by the tone she put into the last word they realized for the first time she was not pleased with them.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hanson, when she went into the front room to get her hat.
“I don’t know,” said Minnie.
“Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone.”
Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the door.
There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about this, but at last she summoned the courage.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about clothes,” she said one evening when they were together. “I need a hat.”
Minnie looked serious.
“Why don’t you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?” she suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie’s money would create.
“I’d like to for a week or so, if you don’t mind,” ventured Carrie.
“Could you pay two dollars?” asked Minnie.
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions.
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I feel real bad.”
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie; “I’ll go down Monday and see if I can’t get something.”
If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trail than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about, utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would have to give up and go home.
On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about.
“Well, well!” said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine and good-humour.
“Why, how are you, Carrie?” he said. “You’re a daisy. Where have you been?”
Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
“I’ve