The Essential Works of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

see what we can do.”

      The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.

      The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasised.

      “Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work ever seen on the Casino stage,” observed the stage critic of the “Sun.” “It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious.”

      The critic of the “Evening World,” seeking as usual to establish a catch phrase which should “go” with the town, wound up by advising: “If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown.”

      The result was miraculous so far as Carrie’s fortune was concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the manager.

      “You seem to have taken the town by storm,” he wrote. “This is delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own.”

      The author also sent word.

      That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most pleasant greeting for her.

      “Mr. Stevens,” he said, referring to the author, “is preparing a little song, which he would like you to sing next week.”

      “Oh, I can’t sing,” returned Carrie.

      “It isn’t anything difficult. ‘It’s something that is very simple,’ he says, ‘and would suit you exactly.’”

      “Of course, I wouldn’t mind trying,” said Carrie, archly.

      “Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you dress?” observed the manager, in addition. “There’s a little matter I want to speak to you about.”

      “Certainly,” replied Carrie.

      In that latter place the manager produced a paper.

      “Now, of course,” he said, “we want to be fair with you in the matter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?”

      “Oh, very well,” said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.

      “Supposing, then, you just sign this.”

      Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one, with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name.

      “One hundred and fifty a week!” she murmured, when she was again alone. She found, after all — as what millionaire has not? — that there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.

      Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read the dramatic item covering Carrie’s success, without at first realising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing over again.

      “That’s her, all right, I guess,” he said.

      Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.

      “I guess she’s struck it,” he thought, a picture of the old shiny, plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed a creature afar off — like every other celebrity he had known.

      “Well, let her have it,” he said. “I won’t bother her.”

      It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.

      Chapter XLIV

      And this is Not Elf Land — What Gold Will Not Buy

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      When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her dressing-room had been changed.

      “You are to use this room, Miss Madenda,” said one of the stage lackeys.

      No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were having their say.

      Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: “How friendly we have always been.” Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him.

      Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of something — perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty — to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.

      Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to her lips — bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers — whom she did not know from Adam — having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed himself politely in.

      “You will excuse me for intruding,” he said; “but have you been thinking of changing your apartments?”

      “I hadn’t thought of it,” returned Carrie.

      “Well, I am connected with the Wellington — the new hotel on Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers.”

      Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant.

      “Just so,” went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of familiarity. “We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every detail — hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for every floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant is.”

      Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire.

      “What are your rates?” she inquired.

      “Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day.”

      “Mercy!” interrupted Carrie. “I couldn’t pay any such rate as that.”

      “I know how you feel about it,” exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. “But just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every other