in the room. She tried to think she could to it.
‘What’s next?” he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying.
“Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him.”
“Well, now you do that lively,” said the drummer. “Put in snap, that’s the thing. Act as if you didn’t care.”
“Your turn next, Miss Madenda,” said the prompter.
“Oh, dear,” said Carrie.
“Well, you’re a chump for being afraid,” said Drouet. “Come on now, brace up. I’ll watch you from right here.”
“Will you?” said Carrie.
“Yes, now go on. Don’t be afraid.”
The prompter signalled her.
She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Drouet looking.
“Ray,” she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal.
“She’s easier,” thought Hurstwood to himself.
She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less trying parts at least.
Carrie came off warm and nervous.
“Well,” she said, looking at him, “was it any better?”
“Well, I should say so. That’s the way. Put life into it. You did that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene. Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock ’em.”
“Was it really better?”
“Better, I should say so. What comes next?”
“That ballroom scene.”
“Well, you can do that all right,” he said.
“I don’t know,” answered Carrie.
“Why, woman,” he exclaimed, “you did it for me! Now you go out there and do it. It’ll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If you’ll reel it off that way, I’ll bet you make a hit. Now, what’ll you bet? You do it.”
The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion.
When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began to make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the situation rolled around she was running high in feeling.
“I think I can do this.”
“Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see.”
On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation against Laura.
Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something — she did not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.
“It means,” the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, “that society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and society, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent the mockery.”
At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended upon her. She hung at the wing’s edge, wrapt in her own mounting thoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood.
“Come, girls,” said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, “let us look after our things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters.”
“Cue,” said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear. Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white, helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully.
Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work.
There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling, heretofore wandering.
“Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?” was the cry of Pearl.
Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.
Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.
“Let us go home,” she said.
“No,” answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a penetrating quality which it had never known. “Stay with him!”
She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, “He shall not suffer long.”
Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that she was beautiful. She had done something which was above his sphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that she was his.
“Fine,” he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and went about to the stage door.
When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was more fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form.
“Well, well,” said Drouet, “you did out of sight. That was simply great. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you’re a little daisy!”
Carrie’s eyes flamed with the light of achievement.
“Did I do all right?”
“Did you? Well, I guess. Didn’t you hear the applause?”
There was some faint sound of clapping yet.
“I thought I got it something like — I felt it.”
Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in Drouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy leaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder. He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes.
“I thought,” he said, looking at Carrie, “I would come around and tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful.”
Carrie took the cue, and replied:
“Oh, thank you.”
“I was just telling her,” put in Drouet, now delighted with his possession, “that I thought she did fine.”
“Indeed you did,” said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in which she read more than the words.
Carrie laughed luxuriantly.
“If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think you are a born actress.”
Carrie