LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XIX

      An Hour in Elfland — A Clamour Half Heard

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      At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to the box.

      “Now, we’ll see how the little girl does,” he said to Drouet, in a tone which no one else could hear.

      On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger’s part were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure.

      Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.

      After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme, when Carrie came in.

      One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:

      “And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o’clock,” but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful.

      “She’s frightened,” whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.

      The manager made no answer.

      She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.

      “Well, that’s as much as to say that I’m a sort of life pill.”

      It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.

      There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly:

      “I wish you hadn’t said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, ‘Call a maid by a married name.’”

      The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for her.

      In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.

      “She’s too nervous,” said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once.

      “Better go back and say a word to her.”

      Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.

      “Say, Cad,” he said, looking at her, “you mustn’t be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don’t amount to anything. What are you afraid of?”

      “I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I just don’t seem to be able to do it.”

      She was grateful for the drummer’s presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.

      “Come on,” said Drouet. “Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care?”

      Carrie revived a little under the drummer’s electrical, nervous condition.

      “Did I do so very bad?”

      “Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night.”

      Carrie remembered her triumph 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

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