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. Bènot'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 passed across the one, the only, window of the entire basement, which let a modicum 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 pass," 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?"