"Take you now this of _Anne_ and make of the great haste to Monsieur
Da-_lay's_ office, before--_comprenez-vous_--before that you go on the
stage, or see anyone else, he want you to make some lies, I tink, so you
best hurry!"
"Mother, mother!" I cried. As she ran, I held out to her the part, _Anne
Sylvester_, written large on it. She looked, and said: "The last shall be
first!" and kissing me, pushed me toward the stairs.
I almost ran in my anxiety to obey orders; my mind was in a state of
happy confusion--what could it all mean? The announcement had been
distinctly made only yesterday that Miss Agnes Ethel would play _Anne_.
Was she ill? Had she met with an accident? And why should Mr. Daly wish
to see me privately? Could he be going to ask me to read the part over to
him? Oh, dear, heaven forbid! for I could much more successfully fly up
into the blue sky.
The stairs that led down from the sidewalk to the stage-door passed
across the one, the only, window of the entire basement, which let a
modicum of light into a tiny den, intended originally for the janitor's
use, but taken by Mr. Daly for his private office. Here the great guiding
intelligence of the entire establishment was located. Here he dreamed
dreams and spun webs, watching over the incomings, the outgoings, the
sayings and the doings of every soul in the company. He would have even
regulated their thoughts, if he could. I once said to him, after a
rehearsal: "If you could, sir, while in the theatre at least, you would
force us all to think only 'Hail, Daly!'"
He laughed a little, and then rather grimly remarked: "That speech made
to anyone else would have cost you five dollars, Miss Morris. But if you
have absolutely _no_ reverence, neither have you fear, so let it pass,"
and I never said "Thank you" more sincerely in my life, for I could ill
afford jests at five dollars apiece.
But that morning of the first rehearsal, as I hurried down the stairs,
the shade was drawn up high, and through the window I saw Mr. Daly
sitting, swinging about, in his desk-chair. Before I could tap, he called
for me to enter. He was very pale, very rumpled, very tired-looking. He
wasted no time over greetings or formalities, but curtly asked: "Can you
play _Anne Sylvester_?"