The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.
It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate.If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary display within and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth.We are more dependent upon these things than is often thought.We are insects produced by heat, and pass without it.
In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself, feebly and more feebly.
Such mental conflict was not always uppermost.Carrie was not by any means a gloomy soul.More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a definite truth.When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away entirely.
Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of his sort.He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when he travelled took her with him.There were times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.
"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come out some day and spend the evening with us."
"Who is he?" asked Carrie.doubtfully.
"Oh, he's a nice man.He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."
"What's that?" said Carrie.
"The finest resort in town.It's a way-up, swell place."
Carrie puzzled a moment.She was wondering what Drouet had told him, what her attitude would be.
"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought."He doesn't know anything.You're Mrs.Drouet now."
There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly inconsiderate.She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest sensibilities.
"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble promises he had made.
"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal of mine closed up."
He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.
"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll do it."
Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to her conscience, a pleasant way out.Under the circumstances, things would be righted.Her actions would be justified.
She really was not enamoured of Drouet.She was more clever than he.In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked.If it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was.
She would have adored him.She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage.As it was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting.She was not exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.
When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet in a hundred ways.He paid that peculiar deference to women which every member of the sex appreciates.He was not overawed, he was not overbold.His great charm was attentiveness.Schooled in winning those birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him.In a pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest incentive.He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would make the lady more pleased.
Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which Hurstwood possessed.He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too assured.He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art of love.He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement.In the case of Carrie he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former.He was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were.A few years later, with a little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had not been able to approach Carrie at all.
"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling at Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play."
Drouet had not thought of that.
"So we ought," he observed readily.
"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.
"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood."You could do very well in a few weeks."