“They’ve never published my picture.”
“But they will,” said Lola. “You’ll see. You do better than most that get theirs in now.”
Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her—so almost necessary.
Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began to think the world was taking note of her.
The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous sum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With four left over from previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week she was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims.
“You’d better save a little for summer,” cautioned Lola. “We’ll probably close in May.”
“I intend to,” said Carrie.
The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing. Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who belonged to Lola’s staff. The members of the opera company made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with her.
“Let’s stop in and have a rarebit,” he suggested one midnight.
“Very well,” said Carrie.
In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he smiled most graciously.
“Got to go straight home, have you?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.
“She’s not so inexperienced as she looks,” he thought, and thereafter his respect and ardour were increased.
She could not help sharing in Lola’s love for a good time. There were days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.
At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known of it, and it took her breath. “Miss Carrie Madenda,” it was labelled. “One of the favourites of ‘The Wives of Abdul’ company.” At Lola’s advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony.an They had got one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was interested.
The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. So much for the lessons of Hurstwood and Drouet.
In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home engagement.
“They’re putting on a summer play at the Casino,” she announced, after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. “Let’s try and get in that.”
“I’m willing,” said Carrie.
They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.
“Those that want to go with the show next season,” said the manager, “will have to sign this week.”
“Don’t you sign,” advised Lola. “I wouldn’t go.”
“I know,” said Carrie, “but maybe I can’t get anything else.”
“Well, I won’t,” said the little girl, who had a resource in her admirers. “I went once and I didn’t have anything at the end of the season.”
Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.
“We can get along,” added Lola. “I always have.”
Carrie did not sign.
The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week.
“Didn’t I tell you?” said Lola. “It doesn’t do you any good to go away from New York. They forget all about you if you do.”
Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie’s photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out.
“Don’t kick, old man,” remarked the manager. “If it don’t go the first week we will cut it out.”
Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate.
“That isn’t so bad,” said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which Carrie’s blues had upon the part. “Tell her to frown a little more when Sparks dances.”
Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.
“Frown a little more, Miss Madenda,” said the stage manager.
Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke.
“No; frown,” he said. “Frown as you did before.”
Carrie looked at him in astonishment.
“I mean it,” he said. “Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see how it looks.”
It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager.
“That is good,” he said. “If she’ll do that all through, I think it will take.”
Going over to Carrie, he said:
“Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It’ll make the part really funny.”
On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.
In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, gray-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.
At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up.