And thus it happened that I was not legally quite off with the old manager when I was on with the new—in the person of Mr. A. M. Palmer, my sometime manager and still my honored friend. Our relations were always kindly, yet to this hour I squirm mentally when I recall our first meeting. I was taking some chocolate at a woman's restaurant on Broadway, and a common friend brought the "Union Square" manager in and introduced him, simply as a friend, for whatever my secret hope, there had been no open word spoken about business in connection with this interview. But, given a meeting between an idle actress and an active manager, a Barkis-like willingness to talk business is sure to develop.
Looking up and seeing Mr. Harriott advancing toward my table with a strange gentleman in tow, I gave a nervous swallow and fixed my attention upon the latter. His rigid propriety of expression, the immaculately spotless and creaseless condition of his garments made me expect each moment to hear the church-bells clang out an invitation to morning service. Being presented, he greeted me with a gentle coldness of manner—if I may use the expression—that sent my heart down like lead. Now extreme nervousness on my part nearly always expresses itself in rapid, almost reckless speech, and directly I was off at a tangent, successfully sharing with them the fun of various absurdities going on about us; until, in an evil moment, my eye fell upon the smug face of a young rural beau, whose terrified delight in believing himself a very devil of a fellow was so ludicrously evident, that one wept for the presence of a Dickens to embalm him in the amber of his wit.
"Oh!" I said, egged on by one of those imps who hover at the elbow of just such women as I am, "can't you see he is a minister's son? He has had more religion given to him than he can digest. He's taking a sniff of freedom. He has kicked over the traces and he has not quite decided yet whether he'll go to the demnition bow-wows entirely, or be moderately respectable. He's a minister's son fast enough, but he doesn't know yet whether he will manage a theatre in New York or run away with the Sunday-school funds; and that red-haired young person oppo—opposite——" And I trailed off stupidly, for judging by the ghastly silence that had fallen upon my hearers and the stricken look upon Mr. Harriott's face, I knew I had set my foot deep in some conversational morass. I turned a frightened glance upon Mr. Palmer's face, and I have always been glad that I was in time to catch the twinkling laughter in his cool, hazel eyes. Then he leaned toward me and gently remarked: "I am the son of a minister, Miss Morris, and the manager of a theatre, but upon my word the Sunday-school funds never suffered at my hands."
"Oh!" I groaned. And I must have looked just as a pet dog does when it creeps guiltily to its mistress's foot and waits to be smacked. I really must, because he suddenly broke into such hearty laughter. Then presently he made a business proposition that pleased me greatly, but I felt I must tell him that Mr. Daly promised to get out an injunction to prevent my appearance anywhere, and he would probably not care to risk any trouble. And then there came a little squeeze to Mr. Palmer's lips and a little glint in his eye, as he remarked: "You accept my offer and I'll know how to meet the injunction."
And I can't help it—being born on St. Patrick's Day and all that—if people will step on the tail of one's coat, why of course they must expect "ructions." And to tell the honest truth, Mr. Palmer's perfect willingness to fight that injunction filled me with unholy glee; which combined beautifully with gratitude for his quick forgiveness of my faux pas—and I signed a contract with Mr. Sheridan Shook and Mr. A. M. Palmer and was announced to appear in "The Wicked World" at the Union Square Theatre, and I was pursued day and night by slim young men with black curly hair, who tried to push folded papers into my unwilling hands; while life behind the scenes grew more and more strenuous, as scene-shifters, property-men, and head carpenters, armed with braces and screw-eyes, charged any unknown male creature that looked as if he could define the word injunction.
The night came, and with it an equinoctial gale of perfect fury. Whether the people were blown in by the storm or fought their way in by intention, I can't decide. I only know they were there and in numbers sufficient to crowd the bright and ruddy auditorium. They were a trifle damp about the ankles and disordered about the hair, but their hands were in prime working order, their hearts were warm, their perceptions quick—what more could the most terrified actress pray for in an audience?
The play was one of Gilbert's deliciously poetic satires—well cast, beautifully produced, after the manner of Union Square productions generally, and Success shook the rain off her wings and perched upon our banners, and we were all filled with pride and joy, in spite of the young men with folded white papers who swirled wildly up and down Fourth Avenue in the storm, and of those other young men who came early and strove diligently to get seats within reaching distance of the foot-lights, only to find that by some strange accident both those rows of chairs were fully occupied when the doors were first throw open. Yes, in spite of all those disappointed young men, we had a success, and I was not enjoined. Yet there were two rather long managerial faces there that night. For unless my out-of-town managers threw me overboard, because of the trouble about "Alixe," I could remain in this charming play of "The Wicked World" but two short weeks. And no manager can be expected to rejoice over the forced withdrawal of a success.
And right there Mr. Palmer saw fit to do a very gracious thing. After the first outburst of anger and disappointment from Mr. Thomas Hall (my Philadelphia manager), instead of breaking his engagement with me, as he had every right to do, he stood by his contract to star me and at the same terms, if I could provide a play—any play to fill the time with. I had nothing of course but the Daly plays, so my thanks and utter abandonment of the engagement were neatly packed within the regulation ten telegraphic words, when Mr. Palmer offered me the use of his play, "The Geneva Cross," written by George Fawcett Rowe. In an instant my first telegram changed into a joyous acceptance. I was studying my part at night, my mother was ripping, picking out and pressing at skirts and things by day. Congratulating myself upon my good fortune in having once seen the play in New York, I went to Philadelphia, and after just one rehearsal of this strange play, I opened my starring engagement. Can I ever forget the thrill I felt when I received my first thousand dollars? I counted it by twenties, then by tens, but I got the most satisfaction out of counting it by fives—it seemed so much more that way. I was spending it with the aid of a sheet of foolscap paper and a long pencil until after two o'clock in the morning. My mother to this day declares that that was the very best black silk dress she has ever owned—that one out of that first thousand she means, and on the wall here beside me hangs a fine and rare engraving of the late Queen Victoria in her coronation robes that I gave myself as a memento of that first wonderful thousand. That, when the other managers saw that Mr. Hall kept faith with me, and had apparently not lost by his action, they followed suit and all my engagements were filled—thanks to Mr. Palmer's kindness and Mr. Hall's pluck as well as generosity.
CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD
We Give a Charity Performance of "Camille," and Are Struck with Amazement at our Success—Mr. Palmer Takes the Cue and Produces "Camille" for Me at the Union Square.