It was evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no resource.
In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could not be again.
She looked for no refuge in that direction.
Nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.
That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a cruel thing.
Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.
She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage to approach.
She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
“Manager of the company or the house?” asked the smartly dressed individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by Carrie’s looks.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie, taken back by the question.
“You couldn’t see the manager of the house today, anyhow,” volunteered the young man.
“He’s out of town.”
He noted her puzzled look, and then added:
“What is it you wish to see about?”
“I want to see about getting a position,” she answered.
“You’d better see the manager of the company,” he returned, “but he isn’t here now.”
“When will he be in?” asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this information.
“Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve.
He’s here after two o’clock.”
Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.
“Good-looking,” he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself.
One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an engagement at the Grand Opera House.
Here Carrie asked to see the manager of the company.
She little knew the trivial authority of this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been sent on from New York to fill it.
“His office is upstairs,” said a man in the box-office.
Several persons were in the manager’s office, two lounging near a window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk — the manager.
Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of whom — the occupants of the window — were already observing her carefully.
“I can’t do it,” the manager was saying; “it’s a rule of Mr. Frohman’s never to allow visitors back of the stage.
No, no!”
Carrie timidly waited, standing.
There were chairs, but no one motioned her to be seated.
The individual to whom the manager had been talking went away quite crestfallen.
That luminary gazed earnestly at some papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.
“Did you see that in the ‘Herald’ this morning about Nat Goodwin, Harris?”
“No,” said the person addressed.
“What was it?”
“Made quite a curtain address at Hooley’s last night.
Better look it up.”
Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the
“Herald.”
“What is it?” said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for the first time.
He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.
Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best.
She realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain.
Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called for advice.
“Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?”
It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter.
She was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy.
He smiled, as did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal their humour.
“I don’t know,” he answered, looking her brazenly over.