LITMIR.BIZ

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his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he could get along without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now, however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children were getting along. He could see them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property.

      “By George! it’s a shame they should have it all,” he vaguely thought to himself on several occasions. “I didn’t do anything.”

      As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he done — what in the world — that should bar him out this way and heap such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him.

      “She didn’t deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn’t do so much, if everybody could just know.”

      There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself — something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man.

      One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the “Herald.” One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did not enter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not abide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up. He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.

      “Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest here?” said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.

      “Three thousand,” said the man.

      Hurstwood’s jaw fell.

      “Cash?” he said.

      “Cash.”

      He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think it over, and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a vague way.

      “I don’t think he wants to buy,” he said to himself. “He doesn’t talk right.”

      The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o’clock, and growing dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place.

      “How about this ad of yours?” asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to the looks of the place.

      “Oh, dat iss all over,” said the German. “I vill not sell now.”

      “Oh, is that so?”

      “Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over.”

      “Very well,” said Hurstwood, turning around.

      The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.

      “The crazy ass!” he said to himself. “What does he want to advertise for?”

      Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in.

      “It’s you, is it?” she said, and went back.

      “Yes,” he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had bought.

      Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a disagreeable figure.

      Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.

      “Dinner’s ready,” she said, passing him for something.

      He did not answer, reading on.

      She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.

      “Won’t you eat now?” she asked.

      He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except for the “Pass me’s.”

      “It’s been gloomy today, hasn’t it?” ventured Carrie, after a time.

      “Yes,” he said.

      He only picked at his food.

      “Are you still sure to close up?” said Carrie, venturing to take up the subject which they had discussed often enough.

      “Of course we are,” he said, with the slightest modification of sharpness.

      This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself.

      “You needn’t talk like that,” she said.

      “Oh!” he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was hurt.

      “Don’t go ‘way,” he said, as she started back into the kitchen. “Eat your dinner.”

      She passed, not answering.

      He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his coat.

      “I’m going downtown, Carrie,” he said, coming out. “I’m out of sorts to-night.”

      She did not answer.

      “Don’t be angry,” he said. “It will be all right to morrow.”

      He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her dishes.

      “Good-bye!” he said finally, and went out.

      This was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible.

      At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who had got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap and raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn’t so terrible, after all.

      “Well,” he said to Carrie, “today’s my last day on earth.”

      Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.

      Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have lost a load.

      “I’ll go down for a little while,” he said after breakfast, “and then I’ll look around. To-morrow I’ll spend the whole day looking about. I think I can get something, now this thing’s off my hands.”

      He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. They had made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that things were different.

      Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike.

      “Well,” he said at five o’clock, “we might as well count the change and divide.”

      They

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