The daughter (Blanche) liked me, while I looked upon her with awe, and wondered why she even noticed me. She was very wilful, she would not study anything on earth save her short parts. She had never read a book in her life. When I was home from school I told her stories by the hour, and she would say: "You ought to be in a theatre—you could act!"
And then I would be dumb for a long time, because I thought she was making fun of me. One day I was chewing some gum she gave me—I was not chewing it very nicely, either—and my mother boxed my ears, and Blanche said: "You ought to be in a theatre—you could chew all the gum you liked there!"
And just then my mother was so cruelly overworked, and the spring came in with furious heat, and I felt so big and yet so helpless—a great girl of thirteen to be worked for by another—and the humiliation seemed more than I could bear, and I locked myself in our dreary cupboard of a room, and flung myself upon my knees, and in a passion of tears tried to make a bargain with my God! I meant no irreverence—I was intensely religious. I did not see the enormity of the act—I only knew that I suffered, and that God could help me—so I asked His help! But, instead of stopping there, I cried out to Him this promise: "Dear God! just pity me and show me what to do! Please—please help me to help my mother—and if you will, I'll never say 'No!' to any woman who comes to me all my life long!"
My error in trying to barter with my Maker must have been forgiven, for my prayer was answered within a week, while there are many women scattered through the land who know that I have tried faithfully to keep my part of that bargain, and no woman who has sought my aid has ever been answered with a "No!"
One day Blanche greeted me with the news that extra ballet-girls were wanted, and told me that I must go at once and get engaged.
"But," I said, "maybe they won't take me!"
"Well," answered she, "I've coaxed your mother, and my mother says she'll look out for you—so at any rate go and see. I'll take you to-morrow."
And so dimly, vaguely, I seemed to see a way opening out before me, and again behind the locked door I knelt and said: "Dear God! dear God!" and got no further, because grief has many words and joy has so few.
The school term had closed on Friday, and on Saturday morning, with my heart beating almost to suffocation, I started out to walk to the theatre with Blanche, who had promised to ask Mr. Ellsler (the manager) to take me on in the ballet. When we reached the sidewalk we saw the sky threatened rain and Blanche sent me back for an umbrella. I had none of my own, so I borrowed one from Mrs. Miller (our landlady), and at sight of it my companion broke into laughter. It was a dreadful affair—with a knobby, unkind handle, a slovenly and corpulent body, and a circumference, when open, that suggested the idea that it had been built to shelter not only the landlady, but those wise ones of the boarders who had paid up before the winds rose and the rain fell. Then we proceeded to the old Academy of Music on Bank Street, and entering, went upstairs, and just as we reached the top step a small dark man hurried across the hall and Blanche called quickly: "Oh, Mr. Ellsler—Mr. Ellsler! wait a moment, please—I want to speak to you!"
I could not know that his almost repellent sternness of face concealed a kindness of heart that approached weakness, so when he turned a frowning, impatient face toward us, hope left me utterly, and for a moment I seemed to stand in a great darkness. I think I can do no better than to give Mr. Ellsler's own account of that, our first meeting, as he has given it often since. He says: "I was much put out by a business matter and was hastily crossing the corridor when Blanche called me, and I saw she had another girl in tow; a girl whose appearance in a theatre was so droll I must have laughed, had I not been more than a little cross. Her dress was quite short—she wore a pale-blue apron buttoned up the back, long braids tied at the ends with ribbon, and a brown straw hat, while she clutched desperately at the handle of the biggest umbrella I ever saw. Her eyes were distinctly blue and were plainly big with fright. Blanche gave her name and said she wanted to go on in the ballet, and I instantly answered she would not do, she was too small—I wanted women, not children, and started to return to my office. Blanche was voluble, but the girl herself never spoke a single word. I glanced toward her and stopped. The hands that clutched the umbrella trembled—she raised her eyes and looked at me. I had noticed their blueness a moment before—now they were almost black, so swiftly had the pupils dilated, and slowly the tears rose in them. All the father in me shrank under the child's bitter disappointment; all the actor in me thrilled at the power of expression in the girl's face, and I hastily added: 'Oh, well! You may come back in a day or two, and if anyone appears meantime who is short enough to march with you I'll take you on,' and after I got to my office I remembered the girl had not spoken a single word, but had won an engagement—for I knew I should engage her—with a pair of tear-filled eyes."