The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

 
 

---

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 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 personæ 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