I had two dresses, neither one really fit for the occasion, but I put on the best one, braided my mass of hair into the then proper chatelaine braids, and found comfort in them, and encouragement in a fresh, well-fitting pair of gloves. At half-past ten o'clock I entered the underground green-room. Two young men were there before me. I slightly bent my head, and one responded doubtfully, but the other, with the blindness of stone in his eyes, bowed not at all. I sat down in a corner—the stranger always seeks a corner; can that be an instinct, a survival from the time when a tribe fell upon the stranger, and with the aid of clubs informed him of their strength and power? Anyway, as I said, I sat in a corner. There was the carpet, the great mirror, the cushioned bench running clear around the room, and that was all—oh, no! on the wall, of course, there hung that shallow, glass-covered frame or cabinet called, variously, "the call-board," the "call-case," or even the "call-box." It is the official voice of the manager—when the "call-case" commands, all obey. There, in writing, one finds the orders for next day's rehearsal; there one finds the cast of characters in the plays; there, too, the requests for the company's aid, on such a day, for such a charity benefit appears. Ah, a great institution is the "call-case," being the manager's voice, but not his ears, which is both a comfort and an advantage at times to all concerned.
That day I glanced at it; it was empty. The first call and cast of the season would be put up presently. I wondered how many disappointments it would hold for me. Then there was a rustle of skirts, a tapping of heels, a young woman gayly dressed rushed in, a smile all ready for—oh! she nodded briefly to the young men, then she saw me—she looked full at me. The puppy-dog trust arose in me, I was a stranger, she was going to bow, perhaps smile! Oh, how thankful I am that I was stopped in time, before I had betrayed that belief to her. Her face hardened, her eyes leisurely scorched up and down my poor linen gown, then she turned frowningly to the glass, patted her bustle into shape, and flounced out again. I felt as though I had received a blow. Then voices, loudly laughing male voices, approached, and three men came in, holding their hats and mopping their faces. They "bah-Joved" a good deal, and one, big and noisy, with a young face topped with perfect baldness, bowed to me courteously, the others did not see me.
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 passage 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 passageway, 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 titters of two extravagantly gowned nonentities 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 attitude 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 passed by, then looked back, came back, held out his hand, saying: "You stuck-up little brute, I knew you in aprons 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. Bènot, 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. Bènot called Mr. or Miss So-and-so, he or she advanced and received the part assigned 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!