Thus I came to know him fairly well. A man with unbounded ambition, a man of fine and delicate tastes, with a passionate love of beauty—in form, color, sound. I have known him to turn a sentence, exquisitely, word by word, slowly repeating the line, as though he were tasting its beauty, as well as hearing it. Interested in the occult and the inscrutable—a man of many tastes, but of one single purpose—every power and acquirement were brought to the service of the stage.
In love he was mutability personified. In friendship, always exigent. Now sullenly silent, now rapidly talkative, whimsical, changeable, he was ever lavishly generous and warm-hearted. And it is a comfort to know that in one respect at least I proved satisfactory during the friendship that lasted as long as I remained in the theatre, since I never, even by chance, betrayed his confidence.
When we had finally parted, a man one day mentioned me to Mr. Daly, expecting to bring forth some disparaging remark. There was a pause while my former manager gazed out at the heavily falling rain, then he said, quietly: "When you drop a thing in a well, it can go no further. Clara Morris is a sort of human well, what you confide to her goes no further. Some people call that 'discretion,' I call it loyalty. I—I guess you'll get a wetting on the way home." And acting on that hint the surprised gentleman withdrew. He told me himself of the occurrence, and I confess that Mr. Daly's words gave me a thrill of pleasure.
After those two occurrences I found my theatrical life pleasanter, for I love my kind and wish to live at peace with them—and Mr. Daly's dislike had disturbed and distressed me; therefore, when that had been conquered, great was my contentment. A sympathetic word, a comprehending glance, a friendly smile, proving ample indemnification for former injuries.
Nor could I be made to accept at full value the cruel gibes, the bitter sarcasms reported to me as coming from Miss Agnes Ethel. For some reason there was a distinct effort made to arouse in me an enmity against that lady. Unpleasant stories had been repeated to me during the run of "Man and Wife"; some of them had wounded me, but I had only listened silently. Then one night I met her—a slender, auburn-haired, appealing creature, with clinging fingers, sympathetic voice, and honest eyes—a woman whose charming and cordial manner not only won my admiration, but convinced me she was incapable of the brutalities charged to her.
So when "Jezebel" was announced, and it was known that Mr. Daly desired Miss Ethel and me both to appear in it, great interest was aroused, only to be crushed by Miss Ethel's refusal to play the part allotted to her. I think she was in error, for the two parts were perfectly balanced. Mine was the wicked, even murderous adventuress; hers the gentle, sweet, and triumphant wife. I had the first act; she was not in that, but Mr. Daly's idea was that her victory in the last act—where I was simply pulverized for my sins—evened things up. But Miss Ethel listened to the advice of outside friends. Her relations with Mr. Daly were already strained, and her second refusal of a part was the beginning of the end.
Mr. Daly himself informed me that she said her part was secondary, but that the real difficulty sprang from an earlier wrangle between them, with which I had nothing to do. Yet there were persons who, with great indignation, informed me that Miss Ethel had positively "refused to appear upon the stage in any play with me—a mere vulgar outsider!"
But "vulgar outsider" was just a touch too strong; "malice had o'erleaped self" and fallen on the other side. The silly story even reached some of the papers, but that did not increase my belief in its truth.
Mr. Daly and Miss Ethel parted company before, or at, the end of the season, and while I never worked with her, later on I privately received such gracious courtesies from her kindly hands that the name of Agnes Ethel must ever ring pleasantly in my ears.