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there found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all

the affection he could there express.

 

Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command

that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had

not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of

the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid luster no suggestion

of the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by

doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could

be traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The

mouth had the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who

might be upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever

present. The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this

peculiarity of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as

pathos itself.

 

There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her

domination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of

some women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently

powerful to move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance,

but there was that in what she had already experienced which left her a

little less than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and

yet she was confused as to what these things might be. Every hour the

kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new luster upon something, and

therewith it became for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the

box, and some other had become the beautiful, the perfect.

 

On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature

well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an

uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She was

constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who

slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. The

poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying

home from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from the

depths of her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they passed,

shaking her little head and wondering. They had so little, she

thought. It was so sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded

clothes pained her eyes.

 

"And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.

 

On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with picks,

coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about some work

which was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. Toil,

now that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than

when she was part of it. She saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale,

somber half-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. Her old

father, in his flour dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in

memory, revived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his

last, a blast man seen through a narrow window in some basement where

iron was being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window,

his coat off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to

the details of the mill. She felt, though she seldom expressed them,

sad thoughts upon this score. Her sympathies were ever with that

under-world of toil from which she had so recently sprung, and which

she best understood.

 

Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose

feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but

it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted

to analyze the nature of his affection. It was sufficient that there

was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner, good nature and hope

in her thoughts. He drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen

beauty and perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never

penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which he could not understand.

He drew near because it was waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings

for him. It made the morning worth while.

 

In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness had

all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as

pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her smartly and

had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those little

neckpieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form had

filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.

 

Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson

Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,

even when Drouet was at home.

 

The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had

found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which

bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year when the

fullness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little pond near

by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. In

the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was

resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old

gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking

after some bushes. High overhead was the clean blue sky of the new

summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees

hopped and twittered the busy sparrows.

 

Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the

same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no need to

write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart

which characterizes those who put weariness behind. Now, in the shade

of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the

lover. He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighboring

streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum

of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was

as music. He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which

concerned his present fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancy

to the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid

position for life. He remembered the light spirit in which he once

looked after the girls--how he had danced, escorted them home, hung

over their gates. He almost wished he was back there again--here in

this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free.

 

At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean.

She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of

pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue material,

and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue upon a snow-

white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her brown shoes

peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried her gloves in

her hand.

 

Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.

 

"You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking

her hand.

 

"Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"

 

"I didn't know," he replied.

 

He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then he

took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched

her face here and there.

 

"Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."

 

They were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's

eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had sub sided, he said:

 

"When is Charlie going away again?"

 

"I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do for

the house here now."

 

Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He looked up

after a time to say:

 

"Come away and leave him."

 

He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were

of little importance.

 

"Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her

gloves, and looking into a neighboring tree.

 

"Where do you want to go?" he enquired.

 

There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her

feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.

 

"We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.

 

He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be

suggested.

 

"Why not?" he asked softly.

 

"Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."

 

He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had

no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision.

 

"I would have to give up my position," he said.

 

The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight

consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty

scene.

 

"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said, thinking

of Drouet.

 

"It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good

as moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side."

 

He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.

 

"Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as he

is here. I wouldn't want to run away."

 

The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly

that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over

easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a

moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He

could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When

he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to

have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in

his eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for,

and that was everything. How different from the women who yielded

willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.

 

"And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly.

 

She shook her head.

 

He sighed.

 

"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a few

moments, looking up into her eyes.

 

She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at

what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this

concerning her.

 

"No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"

 

Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the

street.

 

"I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't like to

be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not

any happier, are you?"

 

"Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."

 

"Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our days. If

you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the

biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he exclaimed,

throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with

his eyes, "I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it.

Now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a

sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I do?"

 

This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance

of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.

 

"Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try and

find out when he's going."

 

"What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.

 

"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."

 

She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was

getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.

 

Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be

persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to

wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking

of some question which would make her tell.

 

Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often

disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the

difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way.

It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part,

and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious

thought.

 

"Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look

which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or

this week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I had to go away-

-that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--

would you come with me?" His sweetheart viewed him with the most

affectionate glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his

mouth.

 

"Yes," she said.

 

"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"

 

"Not if you couldn't wait."

 

He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what

a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He

had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet

seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand.

 

"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an

afterthought striking him.

 

"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it

would be all right."

 

"I meant that," he said.

 

"Yes."

 

The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever

could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he

could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him.

There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her.

 

"Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these

evenings," and then he laughed.

 

"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie

added reflectively.

 

"I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.

 

She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the

more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the

marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with

such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.

 

"Let's stroll about," he said gaily, rising and surveying all the

lovely park.

 

"All right," said Carrie.

 

They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious

eyes.

 

"'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."

 

 

Chapter XVI

A WITLESS ALADDIN--THE GATE TO THE WORLD

 

In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight

attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last

trip he had received a new light on its importance.

 

"I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look at

Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good house

behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's

a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign that

stands for something."

 

Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such

matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge

headquarters.

 

"I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very

prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man that can

help us out."

 

It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a

hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of

individuals whom he knew.

 

"What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon

his secret brother.

 

"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from today, and

we want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a

part--it's an easy part."

 

"Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember that

he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate good-

nature, however, dictated a favorable reply.

 

"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.

Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.

There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we

thought we would raise it by a little entertainment."

 

"Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."

 

"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry

Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at

heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?"

 

"Never did."

 

"Well, I tell you, he does it fine."

 

"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned Drouet,

anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. "What

are you going to play?"

 

"'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's

famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to

an amateur theatrical favorite, with many of the troublesome

accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the smallest

possible number.

 

Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.

 

"That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. You

ought to make a lot of money out of that."

 

"We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you forget

now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some young

woman to take the part of Laura."

 

"Sure, I'll attend to it."

 

He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel

had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.

 

Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of

a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following

Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's

address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.

 

"Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,

scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything

about amateur theatricals."

 

He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and

finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her

home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out that

evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car he

forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the

"Evening News"--a small three-line affair under the head of Secret

Society Notes--which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would

give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when "Under

the Gaslight" would be produced.

 

"George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."

 

"What?" inquired Carrie.

 

They were at their little table in the room which might have been used

for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal. Tonight the

fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing

repast.

 

"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they

wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."

 

"What is it they're going to play?"

 

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

 

"When?"

 

"On the 16th."

 

"Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.

 

"I don't know any one," he replied.

 

Suddenly he looked up.

 

"Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"

 

"Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act."

 

"How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.

 

"Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."

 

Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes

brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it

was the art of the stage. True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea

as an easy way out.

 

"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there."

 

"No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the

proposition and yet fearful.

 

"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it

will be lots of fun for you."

 

"Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.

 

"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around here

and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough,

all right."

 

"No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.

 

"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll

be fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good.

They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?"

 

He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.

 

"Hand me the coffee," he added.

 

"I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly. "You

don't think I could, do you?"

 

"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I

know you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you."

 

"What is the play, did you say?"

 

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

 

"What part would they want me to take?"

 

"Oh, one of the heroines--I don't know."

 

"What sort of a play is it?"

 

"Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best,

"it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks--a man and

a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and

they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly."

 

"Don't you know what part I would have to take?"

 

"No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do,

too. Laura, that's the thing--you're to be Laura."

 

"And you can't remember what the part is like?"

 

"To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen

the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an

infant--was picked off the street or something--and she's the one

that's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He

stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. "She

comes very near getting drowned--no, that's not it. I'll tell you what

I'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I can't

remember now for the life of me."

 

"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her interest

and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for the

mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right."

 

"Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuse

Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home here and

urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a success

of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you."

 

"When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.

 

"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you to-

night."

 

"All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a

failure now it's your fault."

 

"You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here. Be

natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a corking

good actress."

 

"Did you really?" asked Carrie.

 

"That's right," said the drummer.

 

He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret

flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie

was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in

the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was

created with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the

active world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small

ability. Even without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic

situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the

expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene. She loved

to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the distressed

heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her

sympathies. Of late, seeing the airy grace of the ingenue in several

well-constructed plays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and

many were the little movements and expressions of the body in which she

indulged from time to time in the privacy of her chamber. On several

occasions, when Drouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined,

in the mirror, she was doing nothing more than recalling some little

grace of the mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed in another.

Under his airy accusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the

blame with a faint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was

nothing more than the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature,