"No," I said, and yet again "No!" "Mr. Daly," I cried, "I shall be grateful to you all the days of my life for giving me this chance in New York—you are treating me badly, but I am grateful enough not to rebel. I will play for you every season of my life, if you want me; I will never consider an offer without first telling you of it, but you must engage me but for one season at a time."
"Then you can go!" he said. "All my people are engaged from three to five years—I will not break my rule for anyone; so now you can choose!"
"Pardon me," I answered, huskily, "you chose for me when you told me to go!" I bowed to him and went out, sore at heart and deeply wounded, for I was keeping silent as to his broken promise out of sheer gratitude for the opening he had given me.
The letter-box for the company hung near his private office. One night, as he unlocked his door, he saw old man Keating (the stage-door man) sorting out letters for the various boxes. One caught Mr. Daly's eye, bearing the name of Wallack. He took it from Keating's hand; it was addressed to Clara Morris. No one ever called Mr. Daly a dull man, and when he put two and two together, even in a hurry, he knew quite well that the result would be four; and when he put the words, "Wallack's Theatre," and the address, "Clara Morris," together he knew equally well the result would be an offered engagement. Then Mr. Daly put back the letter and said sharply to the reverent Keating: "Whatever you do, don't let Miss Morris pass you when she comes in. Stop her before she takes her key. Remember, whether early or late, stop her anyway, and send her to my room. Tell her it is urgent—you understand? Before she gets her key (by the letter-box) I must see her!"
Yes, he understood, for when I came in I was switched away from the key-board in a jiffy and rushed by the elbow to the governor's office, and even held there until the summons to enter answered the knock of the determined and obedient Keating.
Inside, Mr. Daly, smiling benignly, greeted me as one greets a naughty, spoiled child, and pulling me by my fingers toward his desk, showed me a contract outspread: "A contract for one season," he said, giving me a light tap on my ear. "Though you must promise silence on the subject, for there would be an outcry of favoritism if it were known that I broke a rule for you! Salary? oh, the salary is only fifty-five dollars, but we will balance that by my assistance in the matter of wardrobe. Whenever you have five dresses to buy I will provide three, which will belong to me afterward, of course—and—and just sign now, for I'm in a great haste, child, as I have an appointment to keep! Oh, you don't want any time to think over an engagement of just one season! You obstinate little block! and, by the way, I'll add five dollars a week to your present salary for the rest of the season, if you sign this—yes, that's the right place!"
So pinched, so tormented were we for money that I signed instantly to secure that immediate poor little five dollars a week rise! Signed and went out to find, awaiting me in the letter-box, a better offer from Mr. Lester Wallack.
And let me say right here that about the middle of the season I found that some young actresses, who handed me cards on the stage, and in laced caps and aprons appeared as maids in my service, were receiving for their arduous duties a higher salary than I received as leading woman and their play-mistress. "It's a strange world, my masters, a very strange world!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH
I Go to the Sea-shore—The Search for a "Scar"—I Make a Study of Insanity, and Meet with Success in "L'Article 47."