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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 note-book 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 ball-room 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."
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