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
the boys out, I guess.”
“What is it?” said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent
manager.
“The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own
good, and they’d like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean—a
squib or two saying that it’s going to take place.”
“Certainly,” said McGarren, “I can fix that for you, George.”
At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. The
members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little
affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as quite a
star for this sort of work.
By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood’s friends had rallied like
Romans to a senator’s call. A well-dressed, good-natured,
flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought
of assisting Carrie.
That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much
as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered
throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to console
herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men and women,
were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she
could not disassociate the general danger from her own individual
liability. She feared that she would forget her lines, that she might
be unable to master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own
movements in the play. At times she wished that she had never gone into
the affair; at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with
fear and stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling
the entire performance.
In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That
hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director’s
criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined,
if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A
loafing professional had been called in to assume the role of Ray, and,
while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of
those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an
audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence
concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident
manner that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere
matter of circumstantial evidence.
“It is so easy,” he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage
voice. “An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It’s the
spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult.”
Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to
swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer
his fictitious love for the evening.
At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided
over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning,
had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o’clock,
and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the
evening to come.
On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far
as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking for
some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her
dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up
which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of
Society.
The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and
display, the scattered contents of the make-up box—rouge, pearl powder,
whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eye-lids, wigs,
scissors, looking-glasses, drapery—in short, all the nameless
paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own.
Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but
always in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly.
It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her
coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her
by the hand kindly, as one who says, “My dear, come in.” It opened for
her as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names
upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the
beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages,
flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open door to see
all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret
passage and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight!
As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the
voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs.
Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing
all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what
the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this
would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do
well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. The thought
had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody
of an old song.
Outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Without
the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been
comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately
interested in its welfare. Hurstwood’s word, however, had gone the
rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been
taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This
was quite a card. C. R. Walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at
least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known
coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his
friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who were
now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in
a general sense. They were the lights of a certain circle—the circle of
small fortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks knew
the standing of one another. They had regard for the ability which
could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or
carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile
position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a little above the order of
mind which accepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and
much assumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative
position, and commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling
people, was quite a figure. He was more generally known than most
others in the same circle, and was looked upon as some one whose
reserve covered a mine of influence and solid financial prosperity.
To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends directly
from Rector’s in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet, who was just
returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now joined in an
animated conversation concerning the company present and the general
drift of lodge affairs.
“Who’s here?” said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where
the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and
talking in the open space back of the seats.
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?” came from the first individual
recognised.
“Glad to see you,” said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.
“Looks quite an affair, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the manager.
“Custer seems to have the backing of its members,” observed the friend.
“So it should,” said the knowing manager. “I’m glad to see it.”
“Well, George,” said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made
necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, “how goes
it with you?”
“Excellent,” said the manager.
“What brings you over here? You’re not a member of Custer.”
“Good-nature,” returned the manager. “Like to see the boys, you know.”
“Wife here?”
“She couldn’t come to-night. She’s not well.”
“Sorry to hear it—nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, just feeling a little ill.”
“I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over
to St. Joe—” and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial
recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends.
“Why, George, how are you?” said another genial West Side politician
and lodge member. “My, but I’m glad to see you again; how are things,
anyhow?”
“Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman.”
“Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble.”
“What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?”
“Oh, he’ll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you
know.”
“I didn’t know that,” said the manager. “Felt pretty sore, I suppose,
over his defeat.”
“Perhaps,” said the other, winking shrewdly.
Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to
roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great show of
finery and much evident feeling of content and importance.
“Here we are,” said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he
was talking.
“That’s right,” returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five.
“And say,” he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, “if this isn’t a good
show, I’ll punch your head.”
“You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!”
To another who inquired, “Is it something really good?” the manager
replied:
“I don’t know. I don’t suppose so.” Then, lifting his hand graciously,
“For the lodge.”
“Lots of boys out, eh?”
“Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago.”
It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful
voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and
all largely because of this man’s bidding. Look at him any time within
the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent
group—a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large
white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success.
The gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands.
Seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was
evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the
ambitions of those who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon,
in a way lionised. Through it all one could see the standing of the
man. It was greatness in a way, small as it was.