Chapter: 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 begin 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.

 Hurstwood has been talking up the play to a bunch of his businessmen buds, convincing them to get tickets--he's even taken out an ad in the newspaper. This thing is going to be more packed than a Madonna concert. Carrie is jittery as the big night approaches, even though she has prepared thoroughly. A member of the cast has been axed for his lackluster performance and replaced by "a loafing professional," and Mrs. Morgan is still green with envy over Carrie's favored status. The lodge sends a carriage to pick up Carrie and Drouet and bring them to the theater. Carrie gets her makeup done and is soon transformed into "The Belle of Society." She adores the whole process and atmosphere. The theater lobby is jammed with well-dressed, well-to-do businessmen and their families. Hurstwood and Drouet run into each other in the lobby and greet one another. Hurstwood chats with his pals, and when one asks where his wife is, Hurstwood says she's sick.

