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endeavoring to re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty

which appealed to her. In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such

outworking of desire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic

art.

 

Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic

ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which

welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those

floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,

concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of

hope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt that

she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she looked

at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she would

look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place.

The glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these

had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that she, too,

could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she was told that she really

could--that little things she had done about the house had made even

him feel her power. It was a delightful sensation while it lasted.

 

When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window

to think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities

for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she had

exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw herself in a

score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice and

suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and

refinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the

arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity of

woe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, the

languor of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts of all the charming women she

had seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion which she had concerning

the stage--now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. She built

up feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant.

 

Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed

around with a great AIR, as Quincel met him.

 

"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the

latter.

 

"I've got her," said Drouet.

 

"Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; "that's

good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his notebook in order to

be able to send her part to her.

 

"You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.

 

"Yes."

 

"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning.

 

"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have any

information to send her."

 

"Twenty-nine Ogden Place."

 

"And her name?"

 

"Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge

members knew him to be single.

 

"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel.

 

"Yes, it does."

 

He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner of

one who does a favor.

 

"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?"

 

"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that I've

said I would."

 

"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company.

The rest of them aren't as good as you are."

 

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her

misgivings.

 

He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make his

next remark.

 

"They were getting ready to print the programs," he said, "and I gave

them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?"

 

"Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She was

thinking it was slightly strange.

 

"If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.

 

"Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was

clever for Drouet.

 

"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse

then if you didn't GO. They all know me so well. But you'll GO all

right. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again."

 

"Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined now to

have a try at the fascinating game.

 

Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was about

to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.

 

The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it,

was one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true

to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began

his career. The sorrowful demeanor, the tremolo music, the long,

explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.

 

"Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voice

out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine before

he goes."

 

She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing that

she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only be

there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement of

the scenes.

 

"I think I can do that, though," she concluded.

 

When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with her

day's study.

 

"Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.

 

"All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorized nearly."

 

"That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it."

 

"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she said

bashfully.

 

"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than it

will there."

 

"I don't know about that," she answered. Eventually she took off the

ballroom episode with considerable feeling, forgetting, as she got

deeper in the scene, all about Drouet, and letting herself rise to a

fine state of feeling.

 

"Good," said Drouet; "fine, out o' sight! You're all right Caddie, I

tell you."

 

He was really moved by her excellent representation and the general

appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finally

fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and now held her

laughing in his arms.

 

"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.

 

"Not a bit."

 

"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like

that."

 

"I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with

delight.

 

"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can take

my word for that. You won't fail."

 

 

Chapter XVII

A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY--HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE

 

The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take

place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy

than was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written

to Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was

going to take part in a play.

 

"I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; "I

have my part now, honest, truly."

 

Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.

 

"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."

 

He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. "I

haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must come to

the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."

 

Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking

as she understood it.

 

"Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you

will do well, you're so clever."

 

He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her

tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared.

As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of

the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings--

and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day--she was still

happy. She could not repress her delight in doing this little thing

which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all.

 

Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had

capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a

legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives color, force,

and beauty to the possessor.

 

Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew

to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned.

Their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of what

she was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Her

inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with

every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby

the treasure of life was to be discovered.

 

"Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in the

lodge. I'm an Elk myself."

 

"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."

 

"That's so," said the manager.

 

"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't see how

you can unless he asks you."

 

"I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so he

won't know you told me. You leave it to me."

 

This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the

performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth

talking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and

flowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the

little girl a chance.

 

Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and

he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and

the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a

goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed,

beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, the

pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company

of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated

conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a

new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his progress.

 

"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of you.

I thought you had gone out of town again."

 

Drouet laughed.

 

"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the

list."

 

"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."

 

They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of

notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as

many minutes.

 

"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed Hurstwood,

in the most offhand manner.

 

"Yes, who told you?"

 

"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets,

which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?"

 

"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get me to

get some woman to take a part."

 

"I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll subscribe,

of course. How are things over there?"

 

"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."

 

"Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Have

another?"

 

He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the

scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come

along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.

 

"I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said abruptly,

after thinking it over.

 

"You don't say so! How did that happen?"

 

"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told

Carrie, and she seems to want to try."

 

"Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do her

good, too. Has she ever had any experience?"

 

"Not a bit."

 

"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."

 

"She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation against

Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough."

 

"You don't say so!" said the manager.

 

"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she

didn't."

 

"We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll look

after the flowers."

 

Drouet smiled at his good-nature.

 

"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper."

 

"I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.

 

"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her," and

the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a

compound of good-nature and shrewdness.

 

Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance

Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some

qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by

any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he

came very near being rude-failing to remember, as he did, that the

individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not

salaried underlings.

 

"Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part

uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand like that.

Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the

intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across the

Avery stage in almost drooping manner.

 

Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the

situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the

desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She

walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that

there was something strangely lacking.

 

"Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who

was to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you

stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?"

 

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura's

lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of

marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.

 

"How is that--what does your text say?"

 

"Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.

 

"Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to look

shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked."

 

"Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.

 

"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way--EXPLAIN."

 

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.

 

"That's better. Now go on."

 

"One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father and

mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the

usual crowd of children accosted them for alms--"

 

"Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. "Put

more feeling into what you are saying."

 

Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye

lightened with resentment.

 

"Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying

his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now

supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires

feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them

for alms.'"

 

"All right," said Mrs. Morgan.

 

"Now, go on."

 

"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a

cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."

 

"Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.

 

"A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that

here fell to him.

 

"No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that way.

'A pickpocket--well?' so. That's the idea."

 

"Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been

proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let

alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just

went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up

some points."

 

"A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side

of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the

director did not heed.

 

"All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to do

it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run right

through, putting in as much expression as we can."

 

"Good," said Mr. Quincel.

 

"This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down

at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her own, and

so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain.

Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl."

 

"Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.

 

"The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

 

"Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his

hands off.

 

"The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.

 

"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.

'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'

 

"'Trying to steal,' said the child.

 

"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.

 

"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'

 

"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.

 

"'She--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway

opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas,' said

the girl."

 

Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair.

He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.

 

"What do you think of them?" he asked.

 

"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the latter,

with an air of strength under difficulties.

 

"I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me

as being a pretty poor shift for a lover."

 

"He's all we've got," said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. "Harrison went

back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?"

 

"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up."

 

At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking with

me." "Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand.

"My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like

that?"

 

"Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.

 

The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, as

Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing

Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating

her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding

the words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late,"

and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with:

 

"Ray!"

 

"Miss--Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.

 

Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present.

She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her

lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he

were not present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to

look upon.

 

"Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her little

scene with Bamberger.

 

"Miss Madenda," said Quincel.

 

"I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"

 

"I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our members."

 

"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far--

seems to take an interest in what she's doing."

 

"Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.

 

The director strolled away without answering.

 

In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the

ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who

volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak

with her.

 

"Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.

 

"No," said Carrie.

 

"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."

 

Carrie only smiled consciously.

 

He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting some

ardent line.

 

Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with envious

and snapping black eyes.

 

"She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction of

thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.

 

The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that she

had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director were

ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell

Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing.

Drouet, too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait

until he should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring

it up. The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and

her little experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the

conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without

solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it for granted

that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further worry.

Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was irritating.

She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see Hurstwood. It was

as if he were now the only friend she had on earth. The next morning

Drouet was interested again, but the damage had been done.

 

She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she

got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he

shone upon her as the morning sun.

 

"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"

 

"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.

 

"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"

 

Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she

proceeded.

 

"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must get

over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"

 

"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."

 

"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.

 

She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she

made him promise not to come around.

 

"Now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly. "Just

remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance

worth while. You do that now."

 

"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.

 

"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking an

affectionate finger at her, "your best."

 

"I will," she answered, looking back.

 

The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along,

the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are the

children of endeavor in this, that they try and are hopeful. And

blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.

 

 

Chapter XVIII

JUST OVER THE BORDER--A HAIL AND FAREWELL

 

By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made

itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends--and they

were many and influential--that here was something which they ought to

attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel,

acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had

appeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for by

the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry

McGarren, the managing editor.

 

"Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at

the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you can help