A star—dear God! could such things happen to a star? I was so hurt for him, for his broken pride. When I could speak, I simply told him my salary, and that two (my mother and myself) were trying to live on it. "Oh!" he cried, "crummie girl, why don't you demand your rights; your name is on everyone's lips, yet you are hungry! Shall I speak for you?"
Poor old gentleman, I could not let him go empty away. I took one-half of my rent-money and handed it to him. I dared not ask my landlady to favor me further than that. His face lighted up radiantly—it might have been hundreds from his look. "Dearie!" he said, "I'll pay this back to the penny. You can ill spare it, I see that, crummie girl, but, oh, my lass, it's worse to see another hungry than it is to hunger yourself. I'll pay it back!" His eyes filled, he paused long, then he said, pathetically: "Some time, crummie girl, some time!"
My landlady granted me grace. Months passed away—many of them—waves went over me sometimes, but they receded before my breath was quite gone. Things were bettering a little, and then one day, when I came home from work, a man had called in my absence—an old man, who had left this little packet, and, oh! he had been so anxious for its safety!
I opened it to find $25, all in bills of ones and twos. Such a pathetic story those small bills told—they were for the crummie girl, "With the thanks of the obliged, Charles W. Couldock."
He had kept his word; he was the only man in this profession who ever repaid me one dollar of borrowed money. Mr. Couldock was like some late-ripening fruit that requires a touch of frost for its sweetening. In his old age he mellowed, he became chaste of speech, his acting of strong, lovable old men was admirable. He was honored by his profession in life and honestly mourned in death—he would not have asked more.
CHAPTER NINETEENTH
I Come to a Turning-Point in my Dramatic Life—I play my First Crying Part with Miss Sallie St. Clair.
We were in Columbus; things were moving along smoothly and quietly, when suddenly that incident occurred which had the power to change completely my dramatic prospects, while at the same time it convinced the people about me, in theatrical parlance, my head was "well screwed on," meaning it was not to be turned by praise.
Miss Sallie St. Clair was the star of the week, and she was billed to appear on Friday and Saturday nights in an adaptation of "La Maison Rouge." I am not certain as to the title she gave it, but I think it was "The Lone House on the Bridge." She was to play the dual characters—a count and a gypsy boy. The leading female part Mrs. Ellsler declined, because she would not play second to a woman. The young lady who had been engaged for the juvenile business (which comes between leading parts and walking ladies) had a very poor study, and tearfully declared she simply could not study the part in time—"No—no! she co—co—could not, so now!"
There, then, was Blanche's chance. The part was sentimental, tearful, and declamatory at the last, a good part—indeed, what is vulgarly known to-day as a "fat" part, "fat" meaning lines sure to provoke applause.