_ 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 to-
day, 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 favourable 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 favourite, 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. To-
night 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, endeavouring 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 languour 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 favour.
"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 programmes," 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 demeanour, 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 memorised 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." _