The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

 
 

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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 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. 

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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 rôle 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 eyelids, 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 

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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. 

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"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!" 

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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.