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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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"I’m out," was her reply to the boy. So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye-she was so quiet and reserved. Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here. "How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager, one afternoon. "It might be just the other way," said Carrie. "I think we’ll go in June," he answered. In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion-the old days had gone for good. "She isn’t so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe this. 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." |
