After that the evening's triumph, like the rolling snowball, grew as it advanced. At the end of the quarrel act with Mrs. Glenarm the curtain was raised on the stage picture—once, twice, three times. Then M. Bènot said to Mr. Daly: "They want her," and Mr. Daly answered, sharply: "I know what they want, and I know what I don't want—ring up again!"
He did so; no use, the applause went on. Then Mr. Daly said to me: "Take Mrs. Glenarm on with you, and acknowledge this call."
We went on together; retired; more applause. Again we went on together; no use, the applause would not stop. "Oh, well, ring up once more," said Mr. Daly, "and here, you, take it yourself."
I went on alone, and the audience rose as one individual. I saw them, all blurred through happy tears. I held my hands out to them, with a very passion of love. The house blossomed with white waving handkerchiefs in answer. The curtain fell and, before I moved, rose once more, and then, as I live by bread! I saw pass between me and those applauding people a little crying child carrying a single potato in her hand. Of course that was nerves; but I saw her, I tell you I saw her! and surely I should know myself!
In the fourth act, which was a triumph for all concerned in it—and that meant nearly everyone in the cast—I received a compliment that I prize still. There is a certain tone which should be reserved for short important speeches only in strong and exciting scenes, where, by force of contrast, it has a great effect; so, in tones low, level, clear and cold as ice, Anne had scarcely taken her solemn oath: "I swear it, on my honor as a Christian woman, sir!" when from end to end of their railed-in semicircle the musicians broke into swift applause. Catching the effect, their foreign impetuosity made them respond more quickly than could the Americans who seconded their action, while mere recognition from these play-worn, blasé men was to me veritable incense. In the last act, Mrs. Gilbert, as Hester Detheridge, the supposed dumb woman, proved herself an artist to the fingertips. Later I saw many Hesters, but never one to equal hers.
At last, and late, far too late, the play ended in a blaze of glory. The curtain was raised for final compliments. All the actors in the play had been summoned—we all stood in line, a bowing, smiling, happy line—facing a shouting, hat, handkerchief, or cane-waving crowd of pleased, excited people. As I saw how many eyes were turned my way, with a leap of the heart I repeated: "If you make a favorable impression I will—yes, I will double that salary."
Surely, I thought, no one can doubt that I have made a favorable impression, and, oh, mother, we will be so happy! Just then I caught the eye of a young girl—I could have touched her outstretched hand, she was so close—she gave me a lovely smile, and taking from her bosom a bunch of scarlet carnations she threw them herself. They fell on the stage. One of the actors picked them up and, turning, handed them to Blanche. I heard the disappointed "Oh!" and caught her eye again, when, regardless of all the rules and regulations forbidding communication with the audience, I smiled and kissed my hand to her. As the curtain fell, in an instant everyone was talking with everyone else. I had begun alone—well, I must end alone. I slipped down the staircase least used, and at its foot met Mr. George Brown, who was waiting for me. He took my hands in his and gave me both commendation and congratulation, though they were stayed and braced with unconscious profanity; and I squeezed his hands hard and said: "You are so good, oh! you are so good! but please take care, I'm afraid you'll get forfeited." When he cried: "D——n the forfeit, it's worth a few dollars to speak as you feel sometimes, so good-night!"
I scrambled into my street-clothes, caught up the inevitable bag, and fairly rushed from the theatre, and as I came up from that place of mouldy smell and burnt-out air, and lifted my face to the stupendous beauty of the heavens, sniffing delightedly at the cool, pure night air, suddenly I thought how delicious must have been the first long breath young Lazarus drew when, obeying the Divine command, he "came forth" from the tomb.
Tired, excited, I hurried to carry the news to the two who awaited me—my mother and my dog. At the corner of Twenty-third Street and Broadway I had to pass around a party of ladies and gentlemen who stood talking there, and a lady said as I passed: "No, no! it's Morris, I tell you; see, here it is—Clara Morris." She held up a folded programme, pointing out the name to a gentleman beside her. I laughed happily. Odd bits of the evening's happenings kept appearing before me like pictures. Sometimes I saw the unknown young girl's smiling face—and the scarlet flowers I failed to receive. Sometimes 'twas Mr. Daly's angry one as he pitched me on to the stage to acknowledge a compliment I did not want, great as it was. Most often I saw the faces of the lovely women of the company. What a galaxy of beauty they made! The stately Newton, the already full-blown, buxom Davenport, the tall, slender, deer-eyed Dietz, the oriental Volmer, the auburn-haired Claxton, the blond Norwood! There were just two women in that company who were not beauties—Mrs. Gilbert and Miss Morris; even they were wholesome, pleasant women, who did not frighten horses by any means, but still if you speak of beauty—why, next! please!
At last I saw the lighted windows that told me home was near. Then up the stairs, where there bounded upon my breast the little black-and-tan bundle of love and devotion, called Bertie the loyal, whose fervid greetings made the removal of my hat so difficult a job that it was through the tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling dog I cried at last: "It's all right, Mumsey—a success! Lots and lots of 'calls,' dear! and, oh! is there anything to eat—I am so hungry!"