I did not wear them in any act, and yet, oh, eternal feminine! I "tried them on"—at least I put one ring in my ear and held the pendant against my throat, "just to see" how they would have looked, you know.
Flowers came over the footlights, the like of which I had never seen in my life before—great baskets of hot-house beauties, some of them costing more than I earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note, with a big gold locket. A signature made it possible for me to return that gift next morning.
All that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, pleasing—yes, because earned approbation pleases one, even though it be not quite correctly expressed. It soon became whispered about that I sent back all gifts of jewelry, and lo! one matinée, with a splendid basket of white camelias, fringed about with poinsettia leaves, there came a box of French candied fruit. My! what a sensation it created in the dressing-room. I remember some of the ladies (we dressed in one great long room there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their friends, while I devoted myself to the cherries and apricots. That seemed to start a fashion, for candies, in dainty boxes, came to me as often as flowers afterward, and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from women, and my Saturday five cents' allowance was turned over to mother for the banqueting fund—that meant a bit of cheese for supper.
At the time of the season's opening there was a man in Cincinnati who was there sorely against his will, a wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who would not practise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occupation as he could possibly have grown had he practised the law. Tired of everything else, he still kept his liking for the theatre. Living in New York in the winter, at Cape May in the summer, he only came to his old home when someone was irritating enough to die and need burying in state, or when some lawsuit required his attention, as in this instance. So, being there, and not knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily to the theatre, saying to his cousin companion: "I'll take a look at Macaulay's new leading lady, and then I'll sleep through the rest of the evening comfortably, for no one can talk to me here as they do at the hotel"—and the country Cicely had appeared, and, to use Mr. Worthington's own words: he had sat up straight as a ramrod and as wide-awake as a teething baby for the rest of the evening.
Between acts he had made inquiries as to the history of the new actress, only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother—that was all. On that first night he had said: "Good Lord, Will, what is that girl doing out here in the West? I must see her in a better part. What's on to-morrow night? Secure our seats for the season, that will save a lot of trouble;" and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance for me.
Next night I played what actresses call a "dressed part," which, in spite of suggestion, does not mean that there are parts that are not dressed, only that the character wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. It was a bright, light comedy part. The audience was enthusiastic, though, of course, I was only supporting the star. Then Mr. Worthington exclaimed: "That girl ought to be in New York this very moment!"
"Do you think so?" questioned his inseparable.
"Do I think so?" mocked his cousin. "Yes, I know it. I know the theatres foreign—their schools and styles, as well as I know the home theatres and their actors. I believe I've made a discovery!"
A beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with Mr. Worthington's visiting card, without message. The third night I played a tearful part; the papers (as the women put it) "went on awful," and Mr. Worthington, snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose: "I shall never rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is unlike anyone else, and New York has plenty of room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her some way or other, and preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it."
His visit to Cincinnati was prolonged; his young cousin, Mr. Will Burnett, thought he was on the high-road to crankiness on the subject. Then Mr. Worthington discovered we had a common friend in lawyer Egbert Johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my mother (oh, wise Mr. Worthington), and winning her approval by praise of her wonderful chick (where is the mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?), she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first time I listened to a suggestion of coming to New York.