Life on the Stage Part 28

Where, I thought, was the manager all this time? Then more laughter, and back came my flouncy young woman and two of her kind with her; pretty, finely dressed, badly bred women, followed by one whom I knew instantly.

One I had heard much of, one to whom I had a letter of introduction--I have it still, by the way. She was gray even then, plain of feature, but sweet of voice and very gentle of manner. I lifted my head higher. Of course she would not know me from sole-leather, but she would see I was a stranger and forlornly alone, and besides, being already secure in her position in the company--she was its oldest member--and therefore, in a certain measure, a hostess, and as my mere presence in the green-room showed I was a professional of some sort or quality, both authority and kindness would prompt her to a bow, a smile, perhaps a pleasant word. I looked hungrily at her, her bright, small eyes met mine, swept swiftly over me, and then she slowly turned her black silk back upon me, the stranger in her gate; and as I swallowed hard at the lump Mrs. Gilbert's gentle indifference had brought to my throat, my old sense of fun came uppermost, and I said to myself: "No morning is lost in which one learns something, and I have discovered that covering a club neatly in velvet improves its appearance, without in the least detracting from the force of its blow."

And then the pa.s.sage resounded with laughter and heel-taps, the small room filled full; there was a surging of silken gowns, a mingling of perfumes and of voices, high and excited, and, I must add, affected; much handshaking, many explosive kisses, and then, down the other pa.s.sageway, came more gentlemen. They were a goodly crowd--well groomed, well dressed, manly fellows, and all in high good-humor, except Mr. Davidge, but, in mercy's name! who ever saw, who would have wished to see "rare old Bill" in a good humor?

Such gay greetings as were exchanged around about and even over me, since my hat was twice knocked over my eyes by too emphatic embracings in such crowded quarters--and still no manager, no prompter. When they quieted down a bit, everyone took stock of me. It would have been a trying position even had I been properly gowned, but as it was the ill-suppressed t.i.tters of two extravagantly gowned nonent.i.ties and the swift, appraising glances of the others kept me in agony.

Suddenly a quick step was heard approaching. I nearly laughed aloud in all my misery at their lightning-quick change of manner. Silence, as of the grave, came upon them. They all faced toward the coming steps--anxious-eyed, but with smiles just ready to tremble on to their lips at an instant's notice. Never had I seen anything so like trick-poodles. They were ready to do "dead dog," or jump over a chair, or walk on two legs--ready, too, for either the bone or the blow. I knew from their strained att.i.tude of attention who was coming, and next moment, tall and thin and dour, Mr. Daly stood in the doorway. He neither bowed nor smiled, but crossly asked: "Is Miss Morris here?"

Everyone looked reproachfully at everyone else for not being the desired person. Then as the managerial frown deepened, from my corner I lifted a rather faint voice in acknowledgment of my presence, saying: "Yes, sir, I am here," and he gave that peculiar "huh!" of his, which seemed to be a combination of groan and snort, and instantly disappeared again.

Oh, dear! oh, dear! I had felt myself uncomfortable before, but now? It was as if I had sprung up and shouted: "Say! I'm Miss Morris!" Everyone gazed at me openly now, as if I were a conundrum and they were trying to guess me. I honestly believe I should have broken down under the strain in a moment more, but fortunately a slender little man made his silent appearance at one of the doors and took off his immaculate silk hat, revealing the thin, blond hair, the big, pale blue pop-eyes of James Lewis. Twenty minutes ago my heart would have jumped at sight of him, but I had had a lesson. I expected no greeting now, even from a former friend. I sat quite still, simply grateful that his coming had taken the general gaze from my miserable face. He shook hands all round, glanced at me and pa.s.sed by, then looked back, came back, held out his hand, saying: "You stuck-up little brute, I knew you in ap.r.o.ns and pig-tails, and now you ain't going to speak to me; how are you, Clara?"

While I was huskily answering him, a big woman appeared at the door. Her garments were aggressively rich, and lockets (it was a great year for lockets) dangled from both wrists, from her watch-chain, and from her neck-chain. She glittered with diamonds--in a street-dress which might also have answered for a dinner-dress. I laughed to myself as I thought what a prize she would be for pirates. Then I looked at her handsome face and, as our eyes met, we recognized each other perfectly, but my lesson being learned I made no sign, I had no wish to presume, and she--looked over my head.

M. Benot, the Frenchman who died in harness early in the season, poor little gentleman! came in then with the MSS. and the parts of the play, "Man and Wife." Silence came upon the company. As M. Benot called Mr. or Miss So-and-so, he or she advanced and received the part a.s.signed to them. "Miss Clara Morris!" I rose stiffly--I had sat so long in my corner--and received rather a bulky part. I bowed silently and resumed my seat, but the place was for a moment only a black, windy void; I had seen the name on my part--I was cast for _Blanche_, a comedy part!

As I came back to my real surroundings, M. Benot was saying: "Eleven o'clock sharp to-morrow, ladies and gentlemen, for rehearsal."

People began hurrying out. I waited a little, till nearly all were gone, whispering "Miss Ethel for _Anne_, Miss Ethel for _Anne_" when the handsome "Argosy of wealth" sailed up to me, and, in a voice of sweet uncertainty, said: "I wonder if you can possibly recognize me?"

"Oh, yes," I answered, smiling broadly, "we recognized each other at the moment you entered, Miss Newton."

She reddened and stammered something about "not being quite sure--and out West, and now here," and as she was even prettier than when I had last seen her, I told her so, and--we were happy ever after.

Then I slipped out of the theatre and crossed to Twenty-first Street safely, but could control my grief and pain, my mortification and my disappointment, no longer. Tears would have their way, and I held my sunshade low before my tear-washed, grieving face. Those little ill-suppressed smiles at my clothes, those slightly lifted eyebrows, and there was not even a single introduction to shelter me to-morrow, and as to _Blanche_, oh, I thought "let her wait till I get home!"

At last mother opened the door for me. I flung the hat from my aching head, and as she silently tied a wet handkerchief about my throbbing temples, I blurted out three words: "_A comedy part!_" and fell face downward on the bed, and cried until there was not a tear left in me, and considering my record as a shedder of tears, that's saying a good deal.

Afterward I knelt down and hid my shamed face in the pillow and asked forgiveness from the ever-pitiful and patient One above, and prayed for a clear understanding of the part entrusted to me. Oh, don't be shocked. I have prayed over my work all my life long, and I can't think the Father despises any labor that is done to His honor. And I humbly gave over my further thought of _Anne_, and praying pardon for the folly of "kicking against the p.r.i.c.ks" and wasting my scant strength in useless pa.s.sion, I retired, at peace with myself, the world, and even _Blanche_.

Next morning a curious thing happened. I heard, or thought I heard, the words: "The first shall be last and the last shall be first," and I called from my bed: "Did you speak to me, mother?" and she answered, "No."

As I sat over my coffee and rolls, I said, absently: "The first shall be last, and the _last_ shall be first."

"What do you mean?" mother asked.

"Nothing," I said. "The words were in my ears when I awoke, and they keep coming back to me."

I rose and dressed for rehearsal. As I drew on my gloves I heard a hurried voice asking for me in the hall. I recognized it as M. Benot's.

My heart sank like lead--was even the comedy part to be taken from me? I opened the door. Out of breath, the little man gasped: "I so come quite quick for Monsieur Da-_lay_. He make me to ask you right away, very quick, can you play that part of _Anne_?"

My breath came in gasps, I might have been the runner! I answered, briefly: "Yes!"

"Then," said he, "here give you to me that other part, _Blanche_."

I gave it joyously.

"Take you now this of _Anne_ and make of the great haste to Monsieur Da-_lay's_ office, before--_comprenez-vous_--before that you go on the stage, or see anyone else, he want you to make some lies, I tink, so you best hurry!"

"Mother, mother!" I cried. As she ran, I held out to her the part, _Anne Sylvester_, written large on it. She looked, and said: "The last shall be first!" and kissing me, pushed me toward the stairs.

I almost ran in my anxiety to obey orders; my mind was in a state of happy confusion--what could it all mean? The announcement had been distinctly made only yesterday that Miss Agnes Ethel would play _Anne_.

Was she ill? Had she met with an accident? And why should Mr. Daly wish to see me privately? Could he be going to ask me to read the part over to him? Oh, dear, heaven forbid! for I could much more successfully fly up into the blue sky.

The stairs that led down from the sidewalk to the stage-door pa.s.sed across the one, the only, window of the entire bas.e.m.e.nt, which let a modic.u.m of light into a tiny den, intended originally for the janitor's use, but taken by Mr. Daly for his private office. Here the great guiding intelligence of the entire establishment was located. Here he dreamed dreams and spun webs, watching over the incomings, the outgoings, the sayings and the doings of every soul in the company. He would have even regulated their thoughts, if he could. I once said to him, after a rehearsal: "If you could, sir, while in the theatre at least, you would force us all to think only 'Hail, Daly!'"

He laughed a little, and then rather grimly remarked: "That speech made to anyone else would have cost you five dollars, Miss Morris. But if you have absolutely _no_ reverence, neither have you fear, so let it pa.s.s,"

and I never said "Thank you" more sincerely in my life, for I could ill afford jests at five dollars apiece.

But that morning of the first rehearsal, as I hurried down the stairs, the shade was drawn up high, and through the window I saw Mr. Daly sitting, swinging about, in his desk-chair. Before I could tap, he called for me to enter. He was very pale, very rumpled, very tired-looking. He wasted no time over greetings or formalities, but curtly asked: "Can you play _Anne Sylvester_?"

And, almost as curtly, I answered: "Yes, sir!"

The calm certainty of my tone seemed to comfort him; he relaxed his seemingly strained muscles, and sank back into his chair. He pa.s.sed his long, thin fingers wearily across his closed eyes several times, then, as he opened them, he asked, sharply: "Can you obey orders?"

"Yes," I answered, "I've been obeying orders all my life long."

"Well," he said, "can you keep quiet--that's the thing. Can you keep quiet about this part?"

I stared silently at him.

"This thing is between ourselves. Now, are you going to tell the people all about when you received it?"

I smiled a little bitterly as I replied: "I am hardly likely to tell my business affairs to people who do not speak to me."

He looked up quickly, for I stood all the time, and asked: "What's that, don't speak to you? Were you not welcomed----"

I broke his speech with laughter, but he would not smile: "Were you not properly treated? Who was lacking in courtesy?"

"Oh, please," I hurried, "don't blame anyone. You see there were no introductions made, and of course I should have remembered that the hospitality of the East is more--er--well, cautious than that of the West, and besides I must look very woolly and wild to your people."

"Ah!" he broke in, "then in a measure the fault is mine, since worry and trouble kept me away from the green-room. But Benot should have made introductions in my place--and--well, I'm ashamed of the women! cats!

cats!"

"Oh, no!" I laughed, "not yet, surely not yet!"

Suddenly he returned to the part: "You will tell the people that you were to play _Anne_ in the first place."

"But, Mr. Daly," I cried, "the whole company saw me receive the part of _Blanche_."

He gnawed at the end of his mustache in frowning thought. "One woman to whom it belongs refuses the part," he said; "another woman, who can't play it, demands it from me, and I want to stop her mouth by making her believe the part was given to you before I knew her desire for it--do you see?"

Yes, with round-eyed astonishment, I saw that this almost tyrannically high-handed ruler had someone to placate--someone to deceive.

"You will therefore tell the people you received _Anne_ last night."

I was silent, hot, miserable.

"Do you hear?" he asked, angrily. "Good G.o.d! everything goes wrong. The idiot that was to dramatize the story of "Man and Wife" for me has failed in his work; the play is announced, and I have been up all night writing and arranging a last act for it myself. If Miss Davenport thinks she has been refused _Anne_, she will take her revenge by refusing to play _Blanche_, and the cast is so full it will require all my people--you _must_ say you received the part last night!"