|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
"I think I’ve done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around. "I’ve given you all the clothes you wanted, haven’t I? I’ve taken you everywhere you wanted to go. You’ve had as much as I’ve had, and more too." Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably. "Did I ask you to?" she returned. "Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it." "You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You stand there and throw up what you’ve done. I don’t want your old things. I’ll not have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with them. I’ll not stay here another minute." "That’s nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk off. That’s just like a woman. I take you when you haven’t got anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I’m no good. I always thought it’d come out that way." He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he saw no way of obtaining justice. "It’s not so," said Carrie, "and I’m not going with anybody else. You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, I tell you, and I wouldn’t live with you another minute. You’re a big, insulting"- here she hesitated and used no word at all-"or you wouldn’t talk that way." She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole difficulty would end. "Well, that’s a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out, eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or you wouldn’t act like that. I don’t want the old rooms. You needn’t pull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b’George, you haven’t done me right." "I’ll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don’t want to live with you. You’ve done nothing but brag around ever since you’ve been here." "Aw, I haven’t anything of the kind," he answered. Carrie walked over to the door. "Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off. "Let me out," she said. "Where are you going?" he repeated. He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance. Carrie merely pulled at the door. The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made one more vain effort and then burst into tears. "Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want to rush out for this way? You haven’t any place to go. Why not stay here now and be quiet? I’ll not bother you. I don’t want to stay here any longer." Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcome she could not speak. "Be reasonable now," he said. "I don’t want to hold you. You can go if you want to, but why don’t you think it over? Lord knows, I don’t want to stop you." He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influence of his plea. "You stay here now, and I’ll go," he added at last. Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this thought, angered by that-her own injustice, Hurstwood’s, Drouet’s, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres-an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift. |
