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嘉莉妹妹|Sister Carrie

Chapter 8 INTIMATIONS BY WINTER--AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 西奥多-德莱塞] 阅读：[11348]
Chapter 8 INTIMATIONS BY WINTER--AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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在主宰和支配万物的宇宙各种势力面前，一个没有经验的人简直就像风中的弱草。人类的文明仍处于中间状态，几乎已经摆脱了兽性。因为它已经不完全受本能的支配，可还算不上人性，因为它还没有完全受理性的指导。老虎对自己的行为是不负任何责任的，它天生受原始生命力的支配，受原始生命力的抚育和保护，因为它没有思想。而人类已经远离森林中的巢穴。人类由于获得了几乎完全自由的意志，他天生的本能变得麻木了。但是他的自由意志还没有发展到足以代替本能，为他提供完善指导的地步。他太聪明了，所以不会总是听从本能和欲望的摆布；但是他又不够坚强，不能总是战胜本能和欲望。当他还是动物时，他和生命力保持一致，受生命力的支配。

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但是当他成为人时，他还没有完全学会如何使自己与生命力相一致，使自己适应和控制生命力。他在这种中间阶段摇摆不定--既不是靠本能被动地与自然力保持一致，又不够聪明，不能靠自由意志主动地与自然力保持一致，取得和谐。他只是风中的弱草摇摆不定，受各种情感的影响。一会儿按意志行动，一会又按本能行事。如果他靠意志行动错了，他就靠本能来解救；如果他靠本能行动失败了，他就靠意志再站起来--总之，他是一种反复无常，无法预测的生物。我们唯一的欣慰是我们知道人类会不断地进化，而理想永远是可靠的灯塔，人类不会永远在善与恶之间徘徊。当自由意志和本能的矛盾得到调整，当充分的理性使自由意志具有完全代替本能的力量，人类就不会继续摇摆不定。理智的磁针将永远指向远处真理的磁极。

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在嘉莉身上--其实世俗中人又有几个不是如此呢？--本能和理性，欲望和认识在不断交战，争取主导。迄今她被她的欲望牵着跑，被动的时候多于主动的时候。

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那一晚，敏妮对嘉莉的失踪既困惑不解，又焦虑不安，不过这种焦虑并不是出于思念、悲伤或友爱。第二天一早发现了那张条子时，她叫了起来，“天哪，这是怎么一回事？”“怎么啦？”汉生问。“出去，住到别处去了。”汉生以从未有过的敏捷从床上一跃而起，来看那张纸条。

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不过他什么也没有说，只用舌头咂了一下嘴，表示他对这事的看法，就像人们催马前进时发出的那种声音。

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“你猜她会到哪里去呢？”敏妮情绪激动地问。

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“我不知道，”他的眼中闪过一丝讥嘲，“她终于还是做出了这种事。”敏妮困惑地摇了摇头。

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“唉，”她说，“她不知道自己干的是什么事。”“算了，”过了一会儿，汉生把手一摊说道，“你又有什么办法呢？”女人的天性使敏妮不能就此丢开不管，她猜测着这种情况下的种种可能。

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“唉，”她最后说，“”

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上述对话，发生在清晨５点。与此同时，这个到城里冒险的小兵正独自睡在新房间里，睡得很不踏实。

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如果说嘉莉的新境遇有什么特点的话，那就是她从中看到了各种可能性。她并不是一个肉欲主义者，渴望沉迷在灯红酒绿的花花世界里。她在床上翻来覆去，为自己的大胆而不安，又为从旧的生活中解脱出来高兴。她不知道自己能否找到工作，又猜测着杜洛埃会做些什么。无疑，这位可敬的先生将做的事，造物主早就安排好了。对于他自己的行为，他实在是身不由己。他的理性还未明理到阻止他。他受本能欲望的摆布，扮演一个追求异性的老角色。他对嘉莉的需求正如他对丰盛早餐的需求一样。也许他对自己做的事有那么一丁点儿的良心不安，那么就是在这一点儿上他是邪恶有罪的。不过你可以肯定，不管他为什么良心不安，这种不安都是微乎其微的。

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第二天他来看嘉莉，她在自己的房间和他见面。他仍然是那么欢乐，令人开心。

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“哎呀，”他说，“你为什么这么闷闷不乐？走，我们吃早点去。你今天还要去买别的衣服呢。”嘉莉看着他，大眼睛里透出她的矛盾犹豫心理。

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“但愿我能找到工作，”她说。

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“你会找到工作的，”杜洛埃说。“现在担心有什么用呢？先安定下来，在城里看看。我不会害你的。”“我知道你不会，”她说，不过口气不那么肯定。

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“穿上新鞋子了吗？把脚伸出来，让我瞧瞧。天哪，漂亮极了。现在穿上你的外套吧。”嘉莉照办了。

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“嘿，我说，这衣服合身极了，像定做的一样，对不对？”他说着，摸了摸腰部的大小，又退后几步打量着这衣服，感到由衷的高兴。“你现在只缺一条新裙子了。现在我们去吃早饭吧。”嘉莉戴上帽子。

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“手套呢？”他问。

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“在这里。”她说着从五斗橱的抽屉里拿出手套。

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“好，走吧，”他说。

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就这样，嘉莉最初的疑虑被一扫而光。

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每次见面都是这样。杜洛埃不来看她的时候很少。她有时候一个人单独逛逛，但是大多数时候他带着她到处观光。在卡生街的比尔公司，他给她买了条漂亮的裙子和一件宽松式上衣。她又用他的钱买了一些基本化妆品。到最后，她简直像换了一个人。镜子向她证实了她对自己的一向看法：她真是美，是的，美丽绝伦！帽子戴在她头上多俏丽，她的眼睛不也很美吗？她用牙齿咬咬自己的小红嘴唇，第一次为自己的魅力而吃惊兴奋。杜洛埃这人真好。

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一天傍晚，他们一起去看“日本天皇”，这是一出当时很流行的歌剧。去看戏之前，他们先去温莎餐厅。那家餐馆在第邦街，离嘉莉的住处有一大段路。外面刮起了寒风，从她的窗子看出去，可以看到西边的天空上还残留着一抹淡红的晚霞，而在头顶上方，天空现出湛蓝的颜色，最后和暮色交融在一起。

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一长抹粉红色的薄云浮在半空，就像海上遥远的仙岛。路对面，光秃秃的树枝在风中摇曳。这景色让她想起了老家。１２月份时从她们家的前窗看到的也是这种熟悉的景色。

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她停了下来，痛苦地扭动着她的小手。

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“怎么了？”杜洛埃问。

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“嗯，我也不知道，”她回答，她的嘴唇在颤动。

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他觉察到她有心事，于是用手臂搂住她的肩膀，拍了拍她的手臂。

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“走吧，”他温柔地说，“你没事。”

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她转身穿上外套。

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“今晚最好围上你的皮围脖。”

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他们沿华拔士街往北朝亚当街走去，然后转弯朝西走。商店里的灯火在街上泻下一片金色的光辉。弧光灯在头顶上方闪烁。更高处，写字楼的窗子里透出光明。一阵阵寒风像鞭子一样抽打着行人。那些６点钟刚下班的人们拥挤着往家走。薄大衣的领子都竖了起来，盖住耳朵，帽子也拉得低低的。年轻的女店员三三两两蹦蹦跳跳从身边走过，一边走一边说笑着。

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都是些洋溢着青春热血的人们。

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突然一双眼睛和嘉莉的目光相遇，认出了她。这眼光来自一群衣衫褴褛的姑娘。她们的衣服已经褪了颜色，松松垮垮的不合身，外套也是旧的，全身装束看去很寒伧。

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嘉莉认出了这目光和这姑娘。她是鞋厂里操作机器的女工之一。那女工看见了她，不敢肯定是她，于是又回过头来看。

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嘉莉感到似乎有一片巨浪在他们之间滚滚流过。不久前穿着旧衣烂衫在机器旁干活的日子又出现在眼前。她真的一阵心惊。杜洛埃开始没注意到，一直到嘉莉撞到了一个行人身上，他才发现嘉莉神色的变化。

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“你一定在想心事，”他说。

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他们一起吃了饭，然后去戏院。嘉莉很喜欢这出戏。五光十色动作优美的戏剧场面看得她神驰目眩，她不禁向往其地位和权力，想象着异国风光和那些举止轩昂的人物。戏结束时，得得的马车声和大群衣着华丽的夫人小姐们让她看得目瞪口呆。

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“等一下，”杜洛埃说。在戏院的门厅里，他拉她停住了脚步。夫人们和先生们正在那里走动着，相互应酬着，裙子发出沙沙的声响，戴着花边帽的头在频频点着，张开的嘴里露出洁白的牙齿。

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“我们先瞧一会儿。”

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“六十七号车，”替人叫车的那人正扬声用悦耳的声音喊道，“六十七！”“真漂亮，对不对？”嘉莉说。

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“漂亮极了！”杜洛埃说。他和她一样，为眼前华丽欢乐的场面所感染，热烈地捏了一下她的手臂。一次她抬起目光，微笑的嘴唇里，匀称齐整的贝齿在闪闪发光，眼睛也在闪闪发光。他们朝外走时，他俯下身子在她耳朵边说，“你看上去可爱极了。”他们走到外面时，叫马车的服务员正打开车门，请两位小姐上车。

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“你紧跟着我，我们也去叫辆车，”杜洛埃笑着说。

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嘉莉几乎没听到他的话。这旋风般的生活画面充满了她的头脑。

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马车在一家餐馆门口停下来，他们进去吃宵夜。时间不早了，这个念头在嘉莉头脑里只是模糊地一闪而过，反正她现在已经不受家规的约束了。假如她以前曾有时间形成一定的习惯的话，在这种场合习惯会起作用。习惯真是样怪东西，它能驱使一个没有宗教信仰的人从床上爬起来做祷告，这种祷告完全是习惯使然，而非宗教热忱。受习惯支配的人，一旦忽略了平常做惯的事情，他的心里会产生某种不安，一种脱离日常轨道带来的烦恼和不快，于是他想象这是良心在责备他，想象他听到了良心的声音在轻轻地督促他走上正轨。如果他过份地偏离了常轨，习惯的力量会强大到使这不动脑筋只凭习惯行事的人又回到老习惯来，因循守例行事。“好了，老天保佑，”这种人会这么说，“我总算尽了责任，做了我该做的事。”而实际上，他不过又一次照根深蒂固的老习惯做事而已。

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嘉莉在家时并没有受到多少家教，没有树立起良好的生活原则。如果那样的话，她现在一定要饱受良心的责备而痛苦不堪了。他们这顿宵夜吃得热乎乎的。走马灯般变幻的场景，杜洛埃身上无形的美好东西，以及佳肴美味，豪华饭店在这种种因素的作用下，嘉莉的警觉放松了，她放心地听着和看着。

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城市催眠般的魅力又一次让她上当受气。

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“好了，”杜洛埃终于说，“我们该走了。”吃饭时，他们一直在慢慢地消磨时间。他们的目光不时相接。嘉莉不觉感到他的目光中带有让她心跳的力量。他说话时喜欢用手碰碰她的手，好像要加深她的印象似的。现在当他说走时，他又碰了碰她的手。

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他们站起来，走到外面街上。闹市区的行人已经寥寥无几，只有几个吹着口哨的闲逛者，几辆夜间行驶的街车，还有几家娱乐场仍开着门，亮着灯光。他们慢慢走着，出了华拔士街，杜洛埃滔滔不绝地说着那些趣事逸闻，他挽着嘉莉的手臂，说话时紧紧地握着。每隔一小会儿，说了什么俏皮话以后，他就低下头，和她目光相交。终于他们到了台阶边。嘉莉站在一级台阶上，她的头于是和他的头一样高了。他抓住她的手，温柔地握着，他久久地凝视着她，而她沉思地四下看看，心里一片温暖。

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就在这大约同一时刻，经过长长一晚上的忧思，敏妮正在酣睡。她侧身睡着，胳膊肘很不舒服地压在身子下。受了压迫的肌肉刺激了神经，使得睡意正浓的脑海里浮现出一片模模糊糊的景象。她梦见她和嘉莉不知站在哪个旧矿井的旁边。她可以看到高高的滑槽和一堆堆挖出的泥土和煤。她们俩伸长脖子朝一个很深的竖井往下看。她们可以看到下面很深的地方，有些潮湿的怪石。那个地方的井壁已经看不清，只留下一些暗影。井口有一个用来载人上下的旧筐子，用一根已磨损的旧绳子吊在那里。

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“我们下去看看吧，”嘉莉说。

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“不，别下去，”敏妮说。

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“来，下吧，”嘉莉说。

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她开始拉筐，把筐拽了过来，不顾敏妮的反对，她跨进筐里，已经往下去了。

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“嘉莉！”她喊，“嘉莉，回来！”但是嘉莉已经下去很深了，暗影完全把她吞没了。

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她摇着手臂。

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现在，这神秘的幻影很奇怪地消失了。她发现来到了一片她从来没有去过的水边。她们正站在突出到水里去的某样东西上，那也许是一块木板，也许是伸入水中的陆地，也许是别的什么。嘉莉正站在这东西的顶端。她们四下张望，现在这东西开始往下沉，敏妮可以听到水漫上来的低低的声音。

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“快过来，嘉莉！”她喊着，但是嘉莉继续往外走。她似乎渐渐地远去，她的喊声已经很难送到她的耳朵里了。

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“嘉莉，”她喊道，“嘉莉！”但她自己的声音听上去那么遥远，只剩下一片茫茫水面，把一切吞没了。她怅然若失，痛苦地离去，那种难以名状的悲伤是她生平从未经历过的。

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就这样，种种印象幻影掠过她疲乏的大脑，种种奇怪的梦境浮现出来，变成模糊的一片，一个幻觉接着一个幻觉。最后一个梦境使她喊了出来，因为嘉莉正从一块巉岩上失脚滑下去，而她的手指没有抓住她，她看见她掉了下去。

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“敏妮！怎么了？喂，醒醒。”汉生被吵醒了，他摇着她的肩膀喊。

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“什什么事？"敏妮睡意惺忪地问。

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“醒醒，”他说，“翻一个身再睡。你在说梦话。”个把星期以后，杜洛埃打扮得漂漂亮亮，举止潇洒地走进费莫酒家。

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“你好啊，查理，”赫斯渥从他的小写字间探出头来说。

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杜洛埃踱了过去，朝里望着坐在桌边的经理。

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“你什么时候又要出门做生意？”他问。

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“快了，”杜洛埃回答。

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“这次你回来后，怎么很少看到你啊，”赫斯渥说。

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“噢，我这一向很忙，”杜洛埃说。

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他们随便聊了几分钟。

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“嘿，”杜洛埃好像突然想到了什么似地说道，“我想请你哪天晚上抽空出来玩玩。”“到哪里去玩？”“当然到我家去，”杜洛埃说着微微一笑。

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赫斯渥探究地抬起头来，嘴角浮起一丝笑影。他用精明的目光仔细地看着杜洛埃的脸，然后很有绅士风度地说：“当然，我很高兴去。”“我们可以好好玩玩尤卡扑克。”“我带一瓶赛克白葡萄酒来行吗？”赫斯渥说。

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“那当然好了，”杜洛埃说。“我要介绍你认识一个人。”

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Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him aligned by nature with the forces of life--he is born into their keeping and without thought he is protected. We see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance.

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He is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this intermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with nature by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his own free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of incalculable variability. We have the consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus between good and evil. When this jangle of free-will instinct shall have been adjusted, when perfect under standing has given the former the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and unwavering to the distinct pole of truth.

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In Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She followed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she drew.

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When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow, or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?"

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"What?" said Hanson.

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"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."

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Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse.

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"Where do you suppose she’s gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly aroused.

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"I don’t know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she has gone and done it."

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Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.

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"Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn’t know what she has done."

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"Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him, "what can you do?"

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Minnie’s womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the possibilities in such cases.

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"Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"

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At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5 A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in her new room, alone.

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Carrie’s new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may be sure.

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The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul.

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"Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day."

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Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes.

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"I wish I could get something to do," she said.

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"You’ll get that all right," said Drouet. "What’s the use worrying right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won’t hurt you."

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"I know you won’t," she remarked, half truthfully.

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"Got on the new shoes, haven’t you? Stick ’em out. George, they look fine. Put on your jacket."

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Carrie obeyed.

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"Say, that fits like a T, don’t it?" he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. "What you need now is a new skirt. Let’s go to breakfast."

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Carrie put on her hat.

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"Where are the gloves?" he inquired.

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"Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.

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"Now, come on," he said.

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Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.

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It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie’s he bought her a nice skirt and shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren’t her eyes pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power. Drouet was so good.

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They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable distance from Carrie’s room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December days at home. She paused and wrung her little hands.

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"What’s the matter?" said Drouet.

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"Oh, I don’t know," she said, her lip trembling.

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He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm.

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"Come on," he said gently, "you’re all right."

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She turned to slip on her jacket.

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"Better wear that boa about your throat to night."

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They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o’clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.

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Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie’s in recognition. They were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby.

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Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn’t notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.

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"You must be thinking," he said.

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They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare. "Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips. "Let’s see."

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"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven."

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"Isn’t it fine?" said Carrie.

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"Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery and gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!" They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies.

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"You stick to me and we’ll have a coach," laughed Drouet.

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Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie’s head, but there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.

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Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. She was again the victim of the city’s hypnotic influence.

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"Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."

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They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as he spoke of going.

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They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. He had Carrie’s arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.

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At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope.

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"Let’s get in," said Carrie.

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"Oh, no," said Minnie.

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"Yes, come on," said Carrie.

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She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she had swung over and was going down.

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"Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back"; but Carrie was far down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.

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She moved her arm.

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Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water.

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"Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.

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"Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life.

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It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen her falling.

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"Minnie! What’s the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson, disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.

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"Wha--what’s the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.

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"Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You’re talking in your sleep."

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A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy’s, spruce in dress and manner.

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"Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.

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Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. "When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.

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"Pretty soon," said Drouet.

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"Haven’t seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.

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"Well, I’ve been busy," said Drouet.

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They talked some few minutes on general topics.

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"Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to come out some evening."

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"Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.

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"Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.

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Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly; glad to."

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"We’ll have a nice game of euchre."

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"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood. "Certainly," said Drouet. "I’ll introduce you."

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