My first thought on awaking the next morning was one of dismay, on recalling the destruction of the little "P.H.C."—that being the actors contraction of Mr. Daly's somewhat grandiloquent "Parlor Home of Comedy." My grief over the burning of the pretty toy theatre was very real, and I would have been an astonished young woman had anyone prophesied that for me, personally, the disaster was to prove a piece of unqualified good luck.

And, by the way, that expression "good luck" reminds me of one of the incidents of the fire. That morning, when the firemen went to the ruins to examine into the state of the standing front wall, they looked upward, and there, all alone, on the burned and blackened space, smiling down in friendly fashion upon them, was the picture of Clara Morris—a bit charred as to frame and smoky as to glass, but the photograph (one taken by Kurtz), absolutely uninjured, being the one and only thing saved from the ruins. The firemen very naturally wanted it for their engine-house, and Mr. Daly said that for it many were claiming, pleading, demanding, bartering—but all in vain. His superstition was aroused. Not for anything in the world, he cried, would he part from his "luck," as he ever after called the rescued picture. So there again appeared the malice of inanimate things, for how else could one account for the plunging of that line, the entire length of the staircase, of splendidly framed pictures of loveliness, into the fiery depths, while the plain and unimportant one kept its place in calm security?

Mr. Daly had a very expensive company on his hands. He had amazed other managers by his "corner" on leading men. With three already in his company he had not hesitated to draw on Boston for Harry Crisp, and on Philadelphia for Mr. Louis James; and when he added such names as George Clark, Daniel Harkins, George DeVere, James Lewis, William Lemoyne, William Davidge, A. Whiting, Owen Fawcett, George Parkes, F. Burnett, H. Bascombe, J. Beekman, Charles Fisher, George Gilbert, etc., one can readily understand that the salary of the men alone must have made quite an item in the week's expenses, and added to the sharp necessity of getting us to work as quickly as possible. And in actual truth the ruins of the little theatre were not yet cold when Mr. Daly had, by wire, secured a week for us, divided between Syracuse and Albany, and we were scrambling dresses together and buying new toilet articles—rouge, powders, and pomades, and transforming ourselves into "strolling players"; though, sooth to say, there was precious little "strolling" done after we started, for we were all rushing for rooms, for food, for trains, through a blizzard that was giving us plenty of delaying snow-drifts. And while the company was cheerfully "barn-storming," Mr. Daly was doing his best to find shelter for us in New York, engaging the little one-time church on Broadway. He had painters, paper-hangers, scrub-women, upholsterers, climbing over one another in their frantic efforts to do all he desired to have done in about one-half the regulation time allowed for such work; and while they toiled day and night with much noise and great demonstration of haste, he sat statue-still in a far corner, mentally reviewing every manuscript in his possession, searching eagerly for the one that most nearly answered to the needs of the moment. Namely, a play that required a strong cast of characters (he had plenty of men and women), little preparation, and scanty scenery (since he was short of both time and money). And, finding "Alixe," then known as "The Countess de Somerive," he stopped short. The action of the play covered but one day—that was promising. There were but three acts—good; but two scenes—better! A conventional château garden-terrace for one act, and a simply elegant morning-room or stately drawing-room, according to managerial taste, could stand for the other two acts. A strong and dramatic work—requiring the painting of but two scenes. The play was found! The company was ordered home to rehearse it.

Now at that time, to my own great anxiety, I was by way of standing on very dangerous ground. The public had favored me almost extravagantly from the very first performance of Anne Sylvester, but the critics, at least the most important two, seemed to praise my efforts with a certain unwilling drag of the pen. Nearly all their kind words had the sweetness squeezed out of them between "buts" and "ifs," and, most wounding of all, my actual work was less often criticized than were my personal defects. Occasionally an actress's work may be too good for her own welfare. You doubt that? Yet I know an actress, still in harness, who in her lovely prime made so great a hit, in the part of an adventuress, that she has had nothing else to act since. Whenever a play was produced with such a character in it, she was sent for. But if she was proposed for a loyal wife, a gentle sweetheart, a modern heroine, the quick response invariably was: "Oh, she can't play anything but the adventuress."

There is nothing more fatal to the artistic value, to the future welfare of a young player, than to be known as "a one-part actress"; yet that was the very danger that was threatening me at the time of the burning of the home theatre. Following other parts known as strong, Jezebel, the half-breed East Indian, a velvet-footed treachery and twice would-be murderess, and Cora, the quadroon mad-woman, were in a fair way to injure me greatly. Already one paper had said: "Miss Morris has a strange, intuitive comprehension of these creatures of mixed blood."

But worse than that, the most powerful of the two critics I dreaded had said one morning: "Miss Morris played with care and much feeling. The audience wept copiously" (to anyone who has long read the great critic, that word "copiously" is tantamount to his full signature, so persistently does he use it), "but her performance was flecked with those tigerish gleams that seem to be a part of her method. She will probably find difficulty in equaling in any other line her success as Cora."

No animal had ever a keener sense of approaching danger than I had, when my professional welfare was threatened, and these small straws told me plainly which way the wind was beginning to blow, and now, looking back, I am convinced that just one more "tigerish part" at that time would have meant artistic ruin to me, for, figuratively speaking, pens were already dipped to write me down "a one-part actress."

Then, one bitter cold day we returned to New York and Mr. Daly, sending for me, said he must ask a favor of me. A form of speech that literally made me "sit up straight"—yes, and gasp, too, with astonishment. With a regretful sigh he went on: "I suppose you know you are a strong attraction?"

I smiled broadly at his evident disapproval of such knowledge on my part, and he continued: "But in this play there is no part for you—yet I greatly need all my strongest people in this first cast. Of course as far as ability is concerned you could play the Countess and make a hit, but she's too old—so you'll not play the mother to marriageable daughters under my management, even in an emergency. Now I have Miss Morant, Miss Davenport and Miss Dietz, but—but I must have your name, too."

I nodded vigorously—I understood. And having seen the play in Paris, where it was one of the three pieces offered for an evening's programme, I mentally reviewed the cast and presently made answer, cheerfully and honestly: "Oh, yes! I see—it's that—'er—Aline? Justine? No, no! Claudine? that's the name of the maid. You want me to go on for that? All right! anything to help!"

He leaned forward, asking, eagerly: "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do!" I answered.

"Ah!" he cried, "you don't guess well, Miss Morris, but you've the heart of a good comrade, and now I'm sure you will do as I ask you, and play Alixe for me?"

I sprang to my feet with a bound. "Alixe?" I cried. "I to play that child? oh, impossible! No—no! I should be absurd! I—I—I know too much—oh, you understand what I mean! She is a little convent-bred bit of innocence—a veritable baby of sixteen years! Dear Mr. Daly don't you see, I should ruin the play?"

He answered, rather coldly: "You are not given to ruining plays. The part does not amount to much. Good heavens! I admit it does not suit you, but think of my position; give me the benefit of your name as Alixe for one single week, and on the second Monday night Miss Jewett shall take the part off your hands."

"But," I whimpered, "the critics will make me the butt of their ridicule, for I can't make myself look like an Alixe."

"Oh, no they won't!" he answered, sharply. "Of course you won't expect a success, but you need fear no gibes for trying to help me out of a dramatic hole. Will you help me?" And of course there was nothing to do but swallow hard and hold out my hand for the unwelcome part.

Imagine my surprise when, on my way to rehearsal, I saw posters up, announcing the production of the play of "Alixe." I met Mr. Daly at the door and said: "Why this play was always called 'The Countess of Somerive.'"

"Yes," he replied, "I know—but 'Alixe' looks well, it's odd and pretty—and well, it will lend a little importance to the part!"—which shows how heavy were the scales upon our eyes while we were rehearsing the new play.

Everyone sympathized with me, but said a week would soon pass, and I groaned and ordered heelless slippers, and flaxen hair parted simply and waved back from the temples to fall loosely on the shoulders, to avoid the height that heels and the fashionable chignon would give me, while a thin, white nun's veiling gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, over a low-cut white silk lining, buttoned at the back and finished with a pale blue sash and little side pocket, completed the costume, I prepared for the character. I was beginning to understand, as I studied her, and shamefacedly—to love!

Oh, yes, one often feels dislike or liking for the creature one is trying to represent. Just at first I said to myself, here is a modern Ophelia, but I was soon convinced that the innocence of Alixe was far more perfect than had been that of Shakespeare's weakling, who, through the training of court life, the warnings of a shrewd brother, and the admonitions of a tricky father, had learned many things—was ductile in stronger hands and could play a part; could lead a lover on to speech, without giving slightest hint of the hateful watching eyes she knew were upon him.

Poor "Rose of May," whose sweetness comes to us across the ages! As the garden-spider's air-spun silken thread is cast from bough to twig across the path, so her fragile thread of life looped itself from father to lover, to brother, to queen, and all the web was threaded thick with maiden's tears, made opalescent by rosy love, green hope, and violet despair. But each one she clung to raised a hand to brush the fragile thing aside, and so destroyed it utterly. Yet that tangled wreck of beauty, sweetness, and "a young maid's wits," remains one of the world's dearest possessions—the fair Ophelia!

But this modern maid was yet unspotted by the world. She found all earth perfect, as though God had just completed it, and loved ardently and without shame, as the innocent do love. For this pure flower of crime was ignorant, to the point of bliss, of evil in the world about her. While her adored mother was to her as the blessed Madonna herself.

More and more convincing, as I carefully studied the part, became that perfect innocence. Not cold or reserved, but alive with faith, quivering, too, with girlish mirth, yet innocent. And as with roots deep in rankest, blackest ooze and mud, the lily sends up into the sunlit air its stainless, white-petaled blossom, to float in golden-hearted beauty upon the surface of the stream, so all sweet and open-hearted Alixe floated into view.

And I was expected to act a part like that! I worried day and night over it. Should I do this, should I do that? No—no! she was not coy—detestable word. I recalled the best Ophelia I had ever seen—a German actress. Would she do for a model? Perhaps—no! she was mystic, strange, aloof!

Oh, dear! and then, by merest accident, my mind wandered away to the past, and I said to myself, it should not be so hard. Every woman has been innocent. I was innocent enough when my first sweetheart paused at my side to say to me the foolish old words that never lose sweetness and novelty. I recalled with what open pleasure I had listened, with what honest satisfaction I accepted his attention. With a laugh I exclaimed: "I didn't even have sense enough to hide my gratification and pride, or to pretend the least bit." I stopped suddenly—light seemed to come into my mind. Innocence is alike the world over, I thought; it only differs in degree. I sprang to my feet! I cried joyously: "I have caught the cue, I do believe—I won't act at all! I'll just speak the lines sincerely and simply and leave the effect to Providence."

The scales loosened a trifle over Mr. Daly's eyes at the last rehearsal but one. He was down in the orchestra speaking to the leader when I came to the end of the act, and the words: "The mother whom I have insulted? That young girl, then, is my sister—the sister whose happiness I have stolen? whose future I have shattered? What—is—there—left—for—me to live for?"

Mr. Daly glanced up, and said, sharply: "What's that? 'er, Miss Morris, what are you going to do there as the curtain falls? I—I haven't noticed that speech before. Go back a bit, Mr. Fisher, Miss Morant, back to the Count's entrance; let me hear that again."

We went over the scene again: "H-e-m-m!" said Mr. Daly; "you've not answered my question, Miss Morris. What do you do at the fall of the curtain?"

"Nothing, sir," I answered, "just stare dazedly at space, I think—swaying a little perhaps."

"I want you to fall!" he declared.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, "please, don't you think that would be rather melodramatic? If she could stand while receiving that awful shock about her mother's shame she would hardly fall afterward, from mere horror of her own thoughts?"

"I know all that, but let me tell you there's always great effect in a falling body. At any rate you can sink into a chair—and so get the suggestion of collapse."

"There is no chair," I answered, cheerfully.

"Well," he replied, testily, "there can be one, I suppose. Here, boy, bring a large chair and place it behind Miss Morris."

"Mr. Daly," I argued, "if I fall heavily, as I must, for effect, the chair will jump, and that will be funny—see."

I fell—it did start backward, but Mr. Daly was equal to the emergency. "Take off the castors and place the chair hard against the end of the piano; now try!"

I did; the chair was firm as a rock. It was settled; I did as I was told, and fell at the end of the act ever after. And Mr. Daly came and patted me on the back, and said, kindly: "Don't fret; I honestly believe there's something in the little part after all. That speech made me feel creepy."

But the scales on my own eyes were still firm and tight, and all I could see in the play was the strength, power, and passion of the scenes between the Count and Countess, and the probable hit of Mr. Louis James in his part of the Duc de Mirandol. The fate of this play rested in other hands than mine, thank goodness, and I rejoiced in the freedom from responsibility my small part gave me, and planned what I would do when Miss Jewett took Alixe.

The great night came. Another small auditorium awaited the coming of our patrons. There was a smell of scarce dried paint in front of the curtain and of scrubbing-soap behind it; but all was bright and fresh, and the house was soon packed with a brilliant audience. As the play to be produced had but a small cast, and as Mr. Daly was anxious that the entire company should share in this house-warming, he had invited Mr. John Brougham to write a sort of prologue, giving a few apt lines to every member of the company, and then to proceed to the play. This was done—but, alas! Mr. Brougham's work was utterly unworthy of him. There was not one flash of his wonderful wit. He confined himself to comments upon the fire, after this manner; I spoke, saying:

"I can't remember half the things I lost, I fear——"

Mr. Lewis (breaking in). "One article you have not lost——"

C. M. "What?"

Lewis. "'L'Article 47,' my dear."

Then Miss Jewett came forward to exclaim:

It was only spoken one night. But the audience was so heartily kind to us all that many of us had tears of sheer gratitude in our eyes. We were in evening dress and were formed in a crescent-like line from box to box, as the heavy red curtains parted revealing us, and Mr. Daly was very proud of his family of manly-looking men and gracious women, and the audience greeted the assembled company heartily. But that was nothing to the welcome given as each favorite actor or actress stepped forward to speak—and I was happy, happy, happy! when I found myself counted in as one of them, with the welcome to the beautiful Davenport, Jewett, Dietz, to the ever-favored Mrs. Gilbert, no longer, no heartier than my own! And as I bowed low and gratefully, for just one moment I could not help wishing that I had an important part to play, instead of the childish thing awaiting me.

The prologue being over, Mr. Daly, with a frowning, disappointed face, told those of the play to make all possible haste in changing their dresses, that they might get to work and rub out the bad impression already made.

Every important occasion seems to have its touch of the ridiculous, and so had this one. The "bustle"—the big wire affair, extending to the bottom of the skirt, had reached its hideous apogee of fashion at that time, yet what possible relation could there be between that teetering monstrosity and grace or sentiment or tragedy? Surely, I thought, this girl-pupil, brought straight from convent-school to country-home, might reasonably be bustleless—and I should look so much smaller—so much more graceful! But—Mr. Daly? Never—never! would he consent to such a breach of propriety! Fashion his soul loved! He pored over her plates! he bowed to her mandates!

My courage having failed me, when I hurried to my room I put on the obnoxious structure; but one glimpse of that camel-like hump on the back of Alixe, and the thought of the fall in the chair made me desperate. I tore the mass of wire off, and decided to keep out of sight till the last moment, and then make a rush for the stage.

"Ready, Miss Morris?"

"Ready!" I answered, as the question was asked from door to door.

In a few moments the call-boy came back again: "Are you ready? Everyone is out there but you."

"Oh, yes!" I said, showing myself to him, but still not leaving the shelter of my room; and I heard him saying: "Yes, sir, she's all ready, I saw her."

The curtain rose. Only a few lines were spoken before my entrance. I dared wait no longer—heavens! no! for there was Mr. Daly coming for me. I gathered up my skirts as bunchily as I could and ran out; but I could not deceive Mr. Daly. In an instant he missed the necessary camel's hump. "Good heaven and earth!" he shouted, "you've left your bustle!"

I broke into a run. "Wait!" he cried, loudly. He dashed into my open room, caught the big bustle up, and dragging it like a great cage behind him, came plunging down the entrance to me, crying: "Wait—wait!" and waving the other hand commandingly above his head.

I heard my music; I sprang to the platform I had to enter from. "That's me!" I cried. "Wait!" he ordered and reached out to catch me. I evaded his grasp and skipped through the door, leaving but a fold of my skirt in his hand. I was on the stage—and joy, oh, joy! I was without a bustle!

Mr. Daly did not like being laughed at, but when he glanced down and saw the thing he was dragging behind him, after the manner of a baby's tin wagon, he had to laugh, and verily there were others who laughed with him, while the scandalized dresser carried the rejected article back to a decent seclusion.

There is no manager, star, or agent alive whose experience will enable him to foresee the fate of an untried play. A very curious thing is that what is called an "actor's" play—one, that is, that actors praise and enjoy in the rehearsing, is almost always a failure, while the managerial judgment has been reversed so often by the public, that even the most enthusiastic producer of new plays is apt "to hedge" a bit, with: "Unless I deceive myself, this will prove to be the greatest play," etc.; while the mistakes made by actors and managers both anent the value of certain parts are illustrated sufficiently by E. H. Sothern, C. W. Couldock, Joseph Jefferson—all three of whom made immense hits in parts they had absolutely refused to accept, yielding only from necessity or obligingness, and to their own astonishment finding fame in presenting the unwelcome characters. And to the misjudged Lord Dundreary, Asa Trenchard, etc., that night was added the name of Alixe.

Refined, intensely modern, the play was nevertheless a dread tragedy, and being French it almost naturally dealt with the breaking of a certain great commandment. And now—see: we actors thought that the stress and power of the play would be shown in the confession of the wife and in the scene of wild recrimination between her and the Comte de Somerive, when they met after eighteen years of separation. But see, how different was the view the public took. In the very first place then, when I escaped the bustle, and entered, straight, and slim, art had so reduced my usual height and changed my coloring, that until I spoke I was not recognized. The kindly welcome then given me calmed my fears, and I said to myself: "I can't be looking ridiculous in the part, or they would not do that!" And women, at least, can understand how my very soul was comforted by the knowledge. And just then a curious sense of joy seemed to bubble up in my heart. The sudden relief, the feeling of irresponsibility, the first-night excitement. Perhaps one, perhaps all together caused it. I don't know—I only know that meaning no disrespect, no irreverence, I could have sung aloud from the Benedicite: "Omnia opera Domini!" "Bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him forever!"

And the audience accepted the joyous little maid almost from the first girlish, love-betraying words she spoke, and yet—so sensitive is an audience at times—while still laughing over her sweet ignorance, they thrilled with a nameless dread of coming evil. They seemed to see the blue sky darkening, the threatening clouds piling up silently behind the white-robed child, whose perfect innocence left her so alone! Before the first act ended we discovered that the tragedy was shifting from the sinful mother and was settling down with crushing weight upon the shoulders of the stainless child. Indeed, the whole play was like a dramatization of the awful words: "The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children!"

As the play went on and the impetuous grief of the child changed into proud self-restraint, while her agonizing jealousy of her adored mother developed, Mr. Daly, with wide, bright eyes, exclaimed: "I must have been blind—stone-blind! Why Alixe is the bone and marrow, the heart and soul of this play!"

Certainly the audience seemed to share his belief, for it called and called and called again for that misunderstood young person, in addition to the hearty approval bestowed upon the other more prominent characters. It was a very fine cast, Miss Fanny Morant making a stately and powerful Comtesse de Somerive, while Mr. Louis James gave a performance of the Duc de Mirandol that I never saw even approached again. Every other actor made of him either a fool or a brute, while James made of him a delightful enigma—a sort of well-bred simpleton, rattle-brain, and braggart, who at the last moment shows himself, beneath all disguise, a brave and loyal gentleman.

But the greatest triumph for Alixe followed in that act—the last—in which she does not speak at all. She had been able to bear loss, sorrow, renunciation, but as in olden times poison-tests were kept, crystal cups of such rare purity they shattered under contact with an evil liquid—so her pure heart broke at contact with her mother's shame. Poor, loving, little base-born! Pathetic little marplot! Seeing herself as only a stumbling-block to others, she sought self-effacement beneath the gentle waters of the lily-pond. And early in that last act, as her drowned body, carried in the arms of the two men who had loved her, was laid before the starting eyes of the guilty mother, and the loving, forgiving, pleading letter of the suicide was read above her, actual sobs rose from the front of the house. It was a heart-breaking scene.

But when the curtain fell, oh! what a very whirlwind broke loose in that little theatre! The curtain shot up and down, up and down, and then, to my amazement, Mr. Daly signaled for me to go before the curtain, and I couldn't move. He stamped his foot and shouted: "Come over here and take this call!" and I called back: "I can't! I am all pinned up, so I can't walk!"

For, that my skirts might not fall away from my ankles, when I was being carried across the stage, I had stood upon a chair and had my garments tightly wound about me and securely fastened, and unfortunately the pins were behind—and I all trussed up, nice and tight and helpless.

Mr. Daly came tearing over to me, and down he went upon his knee to try to free me, but a muttered "D——n!" told me that he could not find the pins, and the applause, oh, the precious applause that was being wasted out there! Suddenly he rose—tossed that extraordinary hat of his off, picked me up in his arms and carried me like a big property doll to the curtain's side, signaled it up, and, with his arm about me, supported me on to the stage. Oh, but I was proud to stand there with him, for in those days he would not make the simplest speech; would not show himself even. Why, at the banquet of his own giving, he hid behind a big floral piece and made Mr. Oakey Hall speak for him. And yet he had been pleased enough with my work to bring me there himself. I saw his hand upon my shoulder, and suddenly I stooped my head and kissed it, in purest gratitude.

Afterward, when I had been unpinned, as we walked through the entrance together, he said, with a gleeful laugh: "This is the third and greatest, but we share it."

"The third what?" I asked.

"The third surprise," he answered. "First you surprised the town in 'Man and Wife'; second, you surprised me in 'L'Article 47'; now 'Alixe'—the greatest of all—surprises you as well as me!"

He stopped, stepped in front of me and asked: "What do you most wish for?"

I stared at him. He added, "About your home, say?"

And swiftly I made answer: "A writing-desk; why?"

He laughed a little and said: "Good-night, now. Oh, by the way, there's a forfeit against you for not wearing your bustle to-night."

But I was not greatly alarmed or excited—not half so much as I was next day, about four o'clock, when some men drove up and insisted upon leaving in my room a handsome inlaid desk that was taller than I was. At first I protested, but a card, saying that it was "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from your manager and friend, A. Daly," changed my bearing to one of most unseemly pride.

In the next ten days I wrote I think to every soul I knew, and kept up my diary with vicious exactitude, just for the pleasure of sitting before the lovely desk, that to-day stands in my "den" in the attic. Its mirror-door, is dim and cloudy, its sky-blue velvet writing-leaf faded to a silvery gray, but even so it still remains "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from A. Daly."

The last and fourth success that was granted to me under Mr. Daly's management was in "Madeline Morel." Of course I played in many plays, sometimes small, comparatively unimportant parts, sometimes, as in the two-hundred-night run of "Divorce," I played a long, hard-working part, that was without any marked characteristic or salient feature to make a hit with.

But I only mention "Madeline Morel" because of a couple of small incidents connected with its production. First of all, let me say that I believe Mr. Daly, who was an ardent Catholic, was not the first manager to give benefits to the Orphan Asylums, for I think that had long been a custom, but he was the first to arrange those monster programmes, which included the names of every great attraction in the city—bar none. The result was not merely an Academy of Music literally packed, but crowds turned from its doors. I remember what excitement there was over the gathering together in one performance of such people as Fechter, Sothern, Adelaide Neilson, Aimée, and Mr. and Mrs. Barney Williams. I first saw the beautiful Mary Anderson at one of these benefits, as well as those two clever English women, Rose Coghlan and Jeffreys Lewis. Later on, when I was under Mr. Palmer's management, I had an experience at a benefit that I am not likely to forget. I had consented to do the fourth act of "Camille" (the ball-room scene), and when I swept through the crowd of "guests," every word was wiped clean out of my memory, for as they faced me I recognized in the supposed supers and extras all the various stars—the leading ladies and gentlemen who had had a place on the lengthy programme. Working hard, giving of their best, they had all laughingly joined in this gracious whim of playing supernumeraries in Dumas's ball-scene. And I remember that Mademoiselle Aimée was particularly determined to be recognized as she walked and strolled up and down. Once I whispered imploringly to her: "Turn your back, Madame!" but she laboriously answered: "Non! I haiv' not of ze shame to be supe for you, Mademoiselle!" It was a charming compliment, but more than a bit overwhelming to its recipient.

Well, Mr. Daly having originated, as I believe, these splendid and lengthy benefit performances, was, as a result, able to place a goodly sum of money at the service of the Asylum authorities, and naturally he received warm thanks from his Church.

Then, when "Madeline Morel" came along, with the great cathedral scene, we all stood aghast at what I was called upon to say and do. Everyone was on the stage, and nearly everyone whispered: "Sacrilege!" I stopped stock-still, in sheer fright. Mr. Daly pulled nervously at the lapel of his coat for a moment, and then said, sharply, "Go on!" I obeyed, but right behind me someone said: "And he calls himself a Catholic!"

It was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and impressive act. As a "sister" who had served the "novitiate," I had just taken the life vows and had been invested with the black veil. Then the wedding procession and the Church procession, coming from opposite sides and crossing before the altar, like a great "X," brought the bridegroom and the black nun face to face, in dreadful recognition, and in the following scene I had to drag from my head the veil and swathing white linen—had to tear from my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, stretch my arms to Heaven and, with upraised face, cry: "I call down upon my guilty soul the thunders of a curse, that none may hear and live!" and then fall headlong, as though my challenge had been accepted.

Nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and those of the company who were Catholics were particularly excited, and they cried: "Why, if we find it so repellant, what on earth will an audience think of it?"

Some prophesied hisses, some that the people would rise and leave the theatre. That Mr. Daly was uneasy about its effect he did not attempt to hide, and one day he said to me: "I think I'll call on Father X—— (his confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his—well—his opinion on this matter." But, unfortunately, rumors had already reached churchly ears, and the reverend gentleman came that same day to inquire of Mr. Daly concerning them. I say "unfortunately," because Mr. Daly was a masterful man and resented anything like interference. Had he been permitted to introduce the matter himself, no doubt a few judicious words from the priest would have induced him to tone down the objectionable speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him the wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy in him. He described the play, however, assured his old friend there were no religious arguments, no homilies in it, but when he came to the scene, the Father shook his head: "No—no! my son!" said he, "I do not see how that can be sanctioned."

Mr. Daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded; but though it evidently hurt the good man to refuse, since he was greatly attached to his son in the church, he still shook his head and at last declared it was a serious matter, and he would have to bring it to the Bishop's attention. But that was just what Mr. Daly did not want. "Can you not see, Father," he said, "these lines are spoken in a frenzy? They come from the lips of a woman mad with grief and trouble! They have not the value or the consequence of words spoken by a sane person!"

The priest shook his head. Suddenly Mr. Daly ceased his arguments and persuasions. After a little silence, he said: "You cannot sanction this scene, then, Father?"

A positive shake of the head. Mr. Daly looked pensively out of the window.

"Too bad!" he sighed, "too bad!"

The kind old man sighed too, companionably.

"You see, if that scene is not done, the play cannot be done."

"Dear, dear!" murmured the priest.

"And if the play is not done, having nothing else at hand, I shall have to close the season with the old play, and naturally that will mean bad business."

"Too bad, too bad!" muttered the voice, comfortably.

"And if the season ends badly, why, of course, there can be no charity benefit."

"What?" sharply exclaimed the erstwhile calm voice. "No benefit for our poor? Why—why—'er—I—dear me! and the Asylum needs help so badly!—'er—a 'frenzy' you said, my son? Spoken in madness?—'er—I—well—I will give the matter serious thought, and I'll acquaint you with my conclusion," and evidently much disturbed he retired.

And when Mr. Daly told me this, he added, with a twinkle in his eye: "He will get the benefit, surely enough." And when he saw my bewilderment, he added: "Don't you see? I had my doubts about the Bishop, but dear old Father X—— will be so anxious about his orphans that he will make things right for me with him, for their sakes." A view of the matter that proved to be correct. Verily a clever man was our manager.

Day after day we rehearsed, and day after day I hoped that the dreadful bit of business might be toned down. At last my nerves gave way completely, and after a particularly trying rehearsal I rushed to the managerial office, and, bursting into tears, begged hard to be excused from trampling the cross under foot.

"Surely," I sobbed, "it's bad enough to have to tear off the veil—and—and—I'm afraid something will happen!"

"And," said Mr. Daly, "to tell you the truth, I'm afraid, too!"

He gave me a glass of water, and waiting a moment for me to conquer my tears, he went on: "I'm glad you have come in, I was just about sending for you."

"Oh!" I interrupted, "you are going to cut something out?" But he answered, gravely: "No! I shall cut nothing out! But look here, you are a brave girl, and forewarned is forearmed, you know, so I am going to speak quite plainly. I don't know how the public may receive that bit of business; perhaps with dead silence; perhaps with hisses."

I sprang to my feet. "Sit down!" he said, "and listen. You shall not be held responsible, in the slightest degree, for the scene, I promise you that. If anything disagreeable happens it shall be fairly stated that you played under protest. It is, of course, possible that the scene may go along all right, but I want to warn you that you may prepare yourself for the storm, should it come. I don't want you to be taken unawares and have you faint or lose your nerve. So, now whenever you go over your part and reach that point, say to yourself: 'Here they hiss!' Don't look so pale. I'm sorry you have to bear the brunt alone, but you will be brave, won't you?"

And I rose, and after my usual habit, tried to jest, as I answered: "Since you alone gave me my opportunity of being applauded in New York, I suppose it's only fair that I should accept this opportunity of being hissed."

Excited and miserable I went home. Faithfully I followed Mr. Daly's suggestion. But no matter how often I went over the scene, whenever I said: "Here they hiss," my face went white, my hands turned cold as stone. 'Twas fortunate the first performance was near, for I could not have borne the strain long. As it was, I seemed to wear my nerves on the outside of my clothes until the dreaded night was over.

The play had gone finely; most of the people were well cast. Miss Morant, Miss Davenport, Miss Jewett, Miss Varian especially so; while Fisher, Lewis, Lemoyne, Crisp, Clark, and James did their best to make a success and close in glory the season that had been broken in half by the burning of the home theatre. The end of the third act had been mine. The passionate speech of renunciation and farewell had won the favor of the house, and call after call followed. As I had played the scene alone, I should have been proud and happy—should have counted the calls with a miser's gloating satisfaction. But instead my blood was already chilling with dread of the coming act.

"Good Lord, child!" said Mr. Daly, "your face is as long as my arm! Don't anticipate evil—take the good the gods send you. You are making a hit and you're losing all the pleasure of it. I'm ashamed of you!"

But he wrung my fingers hard, even as he spoke, and I knew that his words were, what the boys call a "bluff."

Then the curtain was rising. The cathedral scene won a round of applause, and kneeling at the altar, as children say, "I scringed" at the sound. Then after a little I was coming down the stage and the audience, recognizing Madeline in the nun, applauded long and heartily, and I fairly groaned aloud. After that the act proceeded really with stately dignity, but to my terrified eyes it seemed indecent haste; and as I fell into line with the Church procession of sisters, of novices, of priests and acolytes, I felt myself a morsel in a kaleidoscopic picture of bright colors, the churchly purple and its red and white, the brilliant gowns of the women of fashion, the golden organ-pipes, the candles burning star-like upon the altar, the massed flowers, and over all, giving a touch of floating unreality to everything, the clouds of incense.

Then suddenly, out of the bluish haze, there gleamed the white, set face, for love of which I was to sacrifice my very soul! The scene was on, swift, passionate, and furious, and almost before I could realize it, the dreadful words had been spoken—and with my foot upon the cross, I stood in a silence the like of which I had never known before! I had not fallen—stricken absolutely motionless with terror I stood—waiting.

In that crowded building even breathing seemed suspended. There reigned a silence, like to death itself! It was awful! Then without changing my attitude by the movement of a finger, I pitched forward, falling heavily at the feet of the dismayed lover and the indignant priest. And suddenly, sharply as by a volley of musketry, the silence was broken by applause. Yes, actually by applause, and beneath its noise I heard a voice behind me gasp: "Well, I'll be blest!"

When all was ended, and after the final courtesies had been extended and gratefully accepted, there was an outburst of excited comment, and more than one experienced actor declared that never again would they even try to anticipate the conduct of an audience. Old Mr. Fisher told Mr. Daly he had felt the rising hiss and he was positive it was regard for the woman that had restrained its expression.

Mr. Daly patted the old gentleman on the shoulder and answered: "Perhaps—perhaps! but if for her sake the public has swallowed that scene one night, the public have got to go on swallowing it every night—and that's the important point for us."

Very shamefacedly I apologized for not falling at the proper time, and as I hurriedly promised to do so the next night, to my surprise Mr. Daly stopped me with a quick: "No! no! change nothing! I was in front, and that pause, staring straight up into heaven, was tremendously effective. It was as if God offered you a moment to repent in—then struck you down! Change nothing, and to-morrow you shall have your heart's desire."

I gazed at him in amazement. He laughed a bit maliciously and said: "Old heat-registers and things carry voices. I hear many things. I have heard, for instance, about a man named Dovey and a wonderful toy terrier that weighs by ounces. I wouldn't open my eyes any wider, if I were you; they might stay that way. Well, will you show me the way to Dovey's by eleven to-morrow?"

"But," I faltered, "I'm afraid of the price——"

"That's my affair," he answered curtly, then added, more kindly, "Good-night! you have behaved well, Miss Morris, and if I can give you a pleasure—I shall be glad."

And next day I owned the tiniest dog in New York, who slept in a collar-box, by my pillow, that I might not hurt it in the night. Whose bark was like a cambric needle, and who, within five minutes after her arrival, challenged to deadly combat my beloved Bertie, who weighed good four pounds.