"MY DEAR MISS MORRIS: I find no letter here. Impatiently, A. D."And straightway I answered:
"MY DEAR MR. DALY: I find no actor here. Afflictedly, C. M."And lo, on my very last night in London, after our return from Paris, I found the exceptional leading man.
Ten days later, on a hot September morning, I was hurling myself upon my mother in all the joy of home-coming when I saw leaning against the clock on the mantel the unmistakable envelope, bearing the impious black scriggle that generally meant a summons. I opened it and read:
"Cleaners in full possession here--look our for soap and pails, and report directly at box-office--don't fail! A. DALY."I confess I was angry, for I was so tired and the motion of the steamer was still with me, and besides my own small affairs were of more interest to me just then than the greater ones of the manager.
However, my two years of training held good. In an hour I was picking my way across wet floors, among mops and pails toward the sanity and dry comfort of Mr. Daly's office. He held my hands closely for a moment, then broke out complainingly: "You've behaved nicely, haven't you? Not a single line sent to tell what you were seeing, doing, thinking?""I beg your pardon--I distinctly remember sending you a line." He scowled blackly. I went on: "I thought your note to me was meant as a model, so I copied it carefully."Formerly this sort of thing had kept us at daggers drawn, but now he only laughed, and shaking his hand impatiently to and fro, said: "Stop it! ah, stop it! So you could not find even one leading man worth while, eh?""Yes--just one!"
"Then why on earth didn't you write me?"
"Couldn't--I only found him on our last night in London."Mr. Daly's face was alight in a moment. He caught up a scrap of paper and a pencil, and, after the manner of the inexperienced interviewer, began: "What's he like?""Tall, flat-backed, square-shouldered, free-moving, and wears a long dress-coat--that shibboleth of a gentleman--as if that had been his custom since ever he left his mother's knee."Mr. Daly ejaculated "good!" at each clause, and scribbled his impish small scribble on the bit of paper which rested on his palm.
"What did he do?" he asked eagerly.
"He didn't do," I answered lucidly.
"What do you mean, Miss Morris?"
"What I say, Mr. Daly."
"But if the man doesn't do anything, what is there remarkable about him?""Why, just that. It was what he didn't do that produced the effect.""A-a-ah," said Mr. Daly, with long-drawn satisfaction, scribbling rapidly. "I understand, and you thought, miss, that you could not judge an actor for me! What was the play?""Bulwer's 'Money,' and Marie Wilton was superb as--""Never mind Marie Wilton," he interrupted impatiently, writing, "but Alfred Evelyn is such an awful prig.""Isn't he?" I acquiesced, "but this actor made him human. You see, Mr. Daly, most Evelyns are like a bottle of gas-charged water:
forcibly restrained for a time, then there's a pop and a bang, and in wild freedom the water is foaming thinly over everything in sight.
This man didn't kowtow in the early acts, but was curt, cold, showing signs of rebellion more than once, and in the big scene, well--!""Yes?" asked Mr. Daly eagerly.
"Well, that was where he didn't do. He didn't bang nor rave nor work himself up to a wild burst of tears!" ("Thank God!" murmured Mr. Daly and scribbled fast.) "He told the story of his past sometimes rapidly, sometimes making a short, absolute pause. When he reached the part referring to his dead mother, his voice fell two tones, his words grew slower, more difficult, and finally stopped. He left some of his lines out entirely--actually forcing the people to do his work in picturing for themselves his sorrow and his loss--while he sat staring helplessly at the floor, his closed fingers slowly tightening, trying vainly to moisten his dry lips. And when the unconsciously sniffling audience broke suddenly into applause, he swiftly turned his head aside, and with the knuckle of his forefinger brushed away two tears. Ah, but that knuckle was clever! His fingertips would have been girly-girly or actory, but the knuckle was the movement of a man, who still retained something of his boyhood about him."Mr. Daly's gray, dark-lashed eyes were almost black with pleased excitement as he asked: "What's his name?""Coghlan--Charles Coghlan."
"Why, he's Irish?"
"So are you--Irish-American," I answered defensively, pretending to misunderstand him.
"Well, you ought to be Irish yourself!" he said sternly.
"I did my best," I answered modestly. "I was born on St. Patrick's Day!""In the mornin'?" he asked.
"The very top of it, sor!"
"More power to you then!" at which we both laughed, and I rose to go.
As I picked up my sunshade, I remarked casually: "Ah, but I was glad to have seen, for once at least, England's great actor.""This Coghlan?"
"Good gracious, no!"
"What, there is another, and you have not mentioned him--after my asking you to report any exceptional actor you saw?""I beg your pardon, sir. You asked me to report every exceptional leading man. This actor's leading man's days are past. He is a star by the grace of God's great gifts to him, and his own hard work.""Well!" snapped Mr. Daly. "Even a star will play where money enough is offered him, will he not?""There's a legend to that effect, I believe.'
