XI
"T. B." CONDUCTS A REHEARSAL
The stage director rose and rolled up his copy of the play, pushingtoward me with his disengaged hand the half-dozen round whitepeppermints which, arranged on a chalk-lined blue blotter, had beenchastely representing my most important characters in their most vitalscene. His smooth, round face was pale with fatigue; the glow of hisbrown eyes had been dimmed by sleepless nights; he had the weary airof a patient man who has listened to too much talk--but not for onemoment had he lost his control of the situation or of us.
"That might have made a better picture," he conceded, graciously. "Butwe can't make any more changes till after the dress rehearsalto-night; and if that goes well we won't want to make any. Don't youworry, Miss Iverson. We've got a winner!"
This, coming from Herbert Elman at the close of our last officialconference, was as merciful rain to a parched field, but I was tooweary to respond to it, except by a tired smile. Under itsstimulation, however, our star, who had been drooping forward in herchair surveying the peppermints much as Lady Macbeth must have gazedupon the stain on her hand, blossomed in eager acknowledgment.
"Bertie, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, gratefully. "It's simplywonderful how you keep up your enthusiasm after three weeks of work.It was criminal of Miss Iverson and me to drag you here thisafternoon. I suppose we had lost our nerve, but that doesn't excuseus."
Elman had started for the door on the cue of his valedictory. At herwords he turned and came back to the desk where we sat together, hisface stamped with a sudden look of purpose; and upon my little study,in which for the past three hours we had wrangled over a dozenunimportant details, a hush fell, as if now, at last, something hadentered which was real and vital. For an instant he stood before us,looking down at us with eyes that held an unaccustomed sternness. Thenhe spoke.
"I had a few words to say to you two when I came here," he began, "butyou were both so edgy that I changed my mind. However, if you'retalking about losing your nerve you need them, and I'm going to getthem off my chest."
Miss Merrick interrupted him, her blue eyes widening like those of ahurt baby.
"Oh, Bertie," she begged, "p-please don't say anything disagreeable.Here we've been rehearsing for weeks, and we three still speak. We're_al-most_ friendly. And now, at the eleventh hour, you're going tospoil everything!"
Her words came out in a little wail. She dropped her head in her handswith a gesture of utter fatigue.
"You are," she ended. "You know you are, and I'm _so-o_ tired!"
Elman laughed. No one ever took Stella Merrick seriously, exceptduring her hours on the stage when she ceased to be Stella Merrick atall and entered the soul of the character she was impersonating.
"Nonsense," he said, brusquely. "I'm going to show my friendship bygiving you a pointer, that's all."
Miss Merrick drew a deep breath and twisted the corner of her mouthtoward me--a trick I had learned from Nestor Hurd five years ago andhad unconsciously taught her in the past three weeks.
"Oh, if that's all!" she murmured, in obvious relief.
"You should have been in your beds the entire day," continued Elman,severely, "both of you, like the rest of the company. We'll rehearseall night, and you know it; and I'll tell you right now," he added,pregnantly, "that you're going to be up against it."
He waited a moment to give his words the benefit of their cumulativeeffect, and then added, slowly:
"Just before I came here this afternoon T. B. told me that to-night heintends to rehearse the company himself."
I heard Stella Merrick gasp. The little sound seemed to come from along distance, for the surprise of Elman's announcement had made medizzy. "T. B." was our manager, better known as "The Governor" and"The Master." He had more friends, more enemies, more successes, moreinsight, more failures, more blindness, more mannerisms, morebrutality, and more critics than any other man in the theatricalworld. His specialty was the avoidance of details. He let othersattend to these, and then, strolling in casually at the eleventh hour,frequently undid the labor to which they had given weeks.
Though his money was producing my play, I had met him only once; andthis, I had been frequently assured by the company, had been the oneredeeming feature of an unusually strenuous theatrical experience. "T.B." never attended any but dress rehearsals, leaving everything to hisstage directors until the black hours when he arrived to consider theresults they had accomplished. It was not an infrequent thing for himon these occasions to disband the company and drop the play; that heshould change part of the cast and most of the "business" seemedalmost inevitable. For days I had been striving to accustom myself tothe thought that during our dress rehearsal "T. B." would be sittinggloomily down in the orchestra, his eyes on the back drop, his chin onhis breast, a victim to that profound depression which seized him whenone of his new companies was rehearsing one of his new plays. At suchtimes he was said to bear, at the best, a look of utter desolation; atthe worst, that of a lost and suffering soul.
At long intervals, when Fate perversely chose to give her screw thefinal turn for an unhappy playwright, "T. B." himself conducted thelast rehearsal, and for several months after one of these tragediestheatrical people meeting on Broadway took each other into quietcorners and discussed what had happened in awed whispers and withfearsome glances behind them. It had not occurred to any of us that"T. B." would be moved to conduct _our_ last rehearsal. This was hisbusiest season, and Elman was his most trusted lieutenant. Now,however, Elman's quiet voice was giving us the details of "T. B.'s"intention, and as she listened Stella Merrick's face, paling slowlyunder the touch of rouge on the cheeks, took on something of theexaltation of one who dies gloriously for a Cause. She might notsurvive the experience, it seemed to say, but surely even death underthe critical observation of "T. B." would take on some new dignity. Ifshe died in "T. B.'s" presence, "T. B." would see that at least shedid it "differently"!
"But, Bertie, that's _great_!" she exclaimed. "He must have a lot offaith in the play. He must have heard something. He hadn't any idea ofconducting when I spoke to him yesterday."
"Oh yes, he had!" Elman's words fell on her enthusiasm as frost fallson a tree in bloom. "He didn't want to rattle you by saying so, that'sall. And he isn't doing this work to-night because he's got faith inthe play. It's more because he hasn't. He hasn't faith in anythingjust now. Three of his new plays have gone to the store-house thismonth, and he's in a beastly humor. You'll have the devil of a timewith him."
Miss Merrick sprang to her feet and began to pace the study withrestless steps.
"What are you trying to do?" she threw back at him over her shoulder."Take what little courage we have left?"
Elman shook his dark head.
"I'm warning you," he said, quietly. "I want you both to brace up.You'll need all the nerve you've got, and then some, to get throughwhat's before us. He'll probably have an entirely new idea of yourpart, Stella; and I don't doubt he'll want Miss Iverson to rewritemost of her play. But you'll both get through all right. You're notquitters, you know."
His brown eyes, passing in turn from my face to hers, warmed at whathe saw in them. When he began to speak we had been relaxed, depressed,almost discouraged. Lack of sleep, nervous strain, endless rehearsalshad broken down our confidence and sapped our energy; but now, in thesudden lift of Stella Merrick's head, the quick straightening of hershoulders, I caught a reflection of the change that was taking placein me. At the first prospect of battle we were both as ready foraction as Highland regiments when the bagpipes begin to snarl. Lookingat us, Elman's pale face lit up with one of his rare and brilliantsmiles.
"That's right," he said, heartily. "A word to the wise. And now I'mreally off."
Almost before the door had closed behind him Miss Merrick had seizedher hat and was driving her hat-pins through it with quick, determinedfingers.
"I'm going home and to bed," she said. "We can both get in threehours' sleep before the rehearsal--and believe me, Miss Iverson,
we'llneed it! Do you remember what General Sherman said about war? Heshould have saved his words for a description of 'T. B.'"
I followed her out into the hall and to the elevator door. I feltoddly exhilarated, almost as if I had been given some powerfullystimulating drug.
"He doesn't exactly kill, burn, or pillage, does he?" I asked, gaily.
With one foot in the elevator, our star stopped a second and lookedback at me. There was a world of meaning in her blue eyes.
"If he did nothing but that, my lamb!" she breathed, and dropped fromsight.
I returned to my desk. I had no idea of going to bed. I was noNapoleon, to slumber soundly on the eve of a decisive battle, butthere was nothing else I could do except to sweep the peppermintdrops out of sight and tuck the diagrammed blotter behind a radiator.While I was engaged in these homely tasks the bell of my telephonerang.
"Hello, Miss Iverson," I heard when I took down the receiver. "Are yougoing to be at home to-night?"
My heart leaped at the familiar greeting of Billy Gibson, starreporter of the _Searchlight_, and one of my stanch friends ever sincethe days, five long years ago, when he had given me my first lesson inpractical reporting. Almost before I could reply to him I noticedsomething unnatural in the quality of his voice. It was a little tooeasy, too casual, too carefully controlled.
"Heard any late news about Morris?" asked Gibson.
"News?" I echoed. "What news? What do you mean?"
"Oh, then you don't know."
Gibson's voice was still ostentatiously cheerful, but it dropped alittle on his next words.
"Why, he's sick," he said. "Pretty sick. Has pneumonia."
"I didn't know," I said, slowly. It had been difficult to bring outthe words. It was for some reason impossible to say more, but Gibsonwent on without waiting, thus giving me time to think.
"Haven't lost all interest in us, have you, now that you've been awayfrom us a year and are writing plays?" he asked, cheerfully.
"Oh, Billy, what about him?" At last I was able to bring out thewords. "Is it serious?" I asked.
"No one at the office realized it was until to-day," said Gibson."This morning Colonel Cartwell stopped at the Morris house on his waydown-town and happened to meet one of the consulting physicians.Godfrey's pretty low," he added, gently. "The crisis is expectedto-night."
For what seemed a long time I sat staring blankly at the telephone.Once or twice I tried to speak, but no speech came. The forgottenreceiver shook in my hand. Every thought but one was wiped out of mymind. Godfrey Morris was ill--very ill. He had been ill fordays--perhaps for weeks--and I had not known it because I had beenabsorbed in my petty interests, which until this moment had seemed sobig.
"If you care to have me," went on Gibson, hesitatingly, "I'lltelephone you later. I'm to be at the Morris house most of the nightand keep the office posted from there. I can call you up once or twiceif--it won't disturb you."
I found my voice, but it sounded strange in my own ears. For aninstant I had seen myself sitting in my study the long night through,getting messages from the sick-room, but now I remembered my work andthe others who were concerned in it.
"Billy," I said, "we're having the dress rehearsal of my playto-night. I may have to be at the Berwyck Theater until three or fourin the morning. Can you send me word there--several times?"
Gibson's answer was prompt.
"You bet I can," he said. "I'll bring it. The Morris house is only afew blocks from the Berwyck, and I'll be glad of something to dobesides receiving and sending bulletins. Tell your door-man to let mepass, and I'll drop in two or three times during the night." His voicechanged. "I thought," he added, almost diffidently, "you'd want toknow."
"Yes," I said, slowly, "I want to know. Thank you."
I hung up the receiver, which slipped in my stiff fingers. Theexhilaration of a few minutes before lay dead within me. I felt coldand numb. From the living-room off my study the light of my open firewinked at me as if in cheery reassurance. I crossed the room andcrouched down before it, stretching out shaking hands to the blaze. Iseemed to be moving in a nightmare, but with every sense horriblyacute. I remembered previous dreams in which I had seemed to see, as Isaw now, the familiar objects of my home around me. I heard thebeating of my heart, the hammering of the blood in my head, the soundof the quick breath I drew--almost the murmur of Godfrey's voice as hebabbled in delirium in his distant sick-room.
"_The crisis is expected to-night._" Gibson's words came back to me.What was it we had arranged? Oh yes--that he was to drop into theBerwyck several times and give me the latest bulletins. But thatwould be hours from now, and suddenly I realized that I could notwait. With a rush I was back at the telephone asking for the Morrishome. I had neglected Grace Morris during the past few months, as Ihad neglected all my other friends in the work which had absorbed me.I dared not ask for her now, when the English accents of the Morrisbutler met my ear.
"Is that you, Crumley?" I asked. "This is Miss Iverson. I've justheard that Mr. Morris is very ill. Can you tell me how he is?"
Crumley's reply showed the impassiveness of the well-trained servant.
"He's very low, Miss," he replied, evenly. "Very low indeed. Two ofthe doctors are here now. They don't hope for any change till towardmorning."
I found words for one more question.
"Is he suffering?" I asked, almost in a whisper.
"Suffering, Miss?" echoed Crumley. "No, Miss, I think not. He's veryquiet indeed--in a stupor-like."
I hung up the receiver with a steadier hand and sat down, staringstraight before me. As I had rallied to Elman's words half an hourago, so now I tried to meet this new demand upon me. There was nothingI could do for Godfrey; but a few hours later there might be much todo for the manager and the company who were giving my work to thepublic. I must stand by them and it--that was the one clear fact in areeling world. I must be very cool, very clear-headed, very alert. Imust have, Elman had told me, all my nerve, "and then some." All this,as I repeated it to myself, was quite plain, yet it meant nothingvital to me. It was as if one side of me had lashed with thesereminders of duty another side which remained unmoved. The only thingof which I was vividly conscious was a scene which I suddenlyvisualized--a sick-room, large and cool and dim, a silent figure in abig bed, doctors and nurses bending over it. At the foot of the bedsat a figure I recognized, Godfrey's mother. Of course she would bethere. I saw the gleam of her white hair, the look in the gray eyeswhich were so like her son's.
"_The crisis is expected to-night._" The old clock in my hall seemedto be ticking off the words, over and over. The hammering blood in mybrain was making them into a refrain which I found myself dullyrepeating.
With a start I pulled myself together. I was on my feet again, walkingback and forth, back and forth, across my study. It was growing late.Through my dark windows the lights of surrounding buildings glowed inat me like evil eyes. I must get ready for my work. Resolutely I heldmy thoughts to that point for an instant, then they swung away. "_Thecrisis is expected to-night. The--crisis--is--expected--to-night.Time--to--get--to--work. The crisis is expected to-night._"
I found that I was dressing. Well, let "T. B." do his worst. He couldtear me and my play to tatters, he could disband the company and disruptthe universe, if only for a few blessed hours he could keep me fromseeing that shadowy room, that still, helpless figure. But he couldn't."_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night. The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" And when it came, while the great battle was waged that Inow knew meant life to me, too, I would be in an up-town theater,listening to petty human beings recite the petty lines of a pettyplay, to which in my incredible blindness I had given my time formonths, shutting myself away from my friends, shutting myself awayfrom Godfrey. How many times had he telephoned and written? Half adozen at least. He had urged me to go to a concert or two, to a playor two, but I had been "too busy." It was monstrous, it wasunbelievable, but it was true. "_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._"
I was at the theater now. How I had reached it was not quite clear.The members of the company were there before me, scattered about inthe wings and on the big empty stage, lit by a single "bunch" light.The information that "T. B." himself was to conduct had fallen uponthem like a pall. Under its sable influence they whispered together instricken groups of three or four. Near the right first entrance Elmanand Miss Merrick sat, their heads close, the star talking softly butrapidly, Elman listening with his tired, courteous air. They noddedacross the stage at me when I appeared, but I did not join them.Instead I slipped down into the dark auditorium and took my place inan orchestra seat, where I could be alone. The whole thing was anightmare, of course. I could not possibly be sitting there when onlya few blocks away that sick-room held its watching group, its silent,helpless patient. "_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._"
There was a sudden stir on the stage, a quick straightening of everyfigure there, a business-like bustle, and much scurrying to and fro."T. B." had entered the theater by the front door and was stridingdown the middle aisle. I saw a huge bulk that loomed grotesque for aninstant as it leaned toward the dark footlights for a word with Mr.Elman, and dropped with a grunt into a chair in the third row. Otherfigures--I did not know how many--had entered the dark theater andtaken their places around me. From where I sat, half a dozen rowsbehind him, I had a view of "T. B.'s" hair under the slouch hat hekept on his head, the bulge of his jaw as he turned his profile towardme, the sharp upward angle of the huge cigar in his mouth. The companywere in their places in the wings and on the stage. I heard Elman'squick word, "Curtain." The rehearsal had begun. The familiar words ofthe opening scene rolled over the footlights as cold and vague as afog that rolls in from the sea. "_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._"No, that was not what the office boy on the stage had just said. Itwas what Gibson had said that afternoon, a thousand years ago, when hehad called me on the telephone.
Things were going badly up there on the stage. Like a patient comingout of ether during an operation, and vaguely conscious of what waspassing around her, I had moments of realizing this. Boyce did notknow his lines; he was garbling them frightfully, and, by failing togive his associates their cues, was adding to the panic into which "T.B.'s" presence had already thrown them. There! He had ruined MissMerrick's opening scene, which was flattening out, going to pieces. Itseemed as if some one should do something. Yet, what could be done?"_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" What difference did it makewhat happened on that stage? The conscious interval was over. Thebabble that came over the footlights meant nothing.
From his orchestra seat, into which he seemed to be sinking deeper asthe moments passed, "T. B." sent forth a sardonic croak. It was ahorrible noise--nerve-racking. It reached down to where I wassubmerged, caught me, drew me up to the surface again. I saw thecompany cringe under it, heard Elman's reprimand of Boyce, and hissharp command to begin the scene again. Confusion, confusion, so muchconfusion over such little things, when only a few blocks away wasthat shadowy sick-room in which the great battle between life anddeath was being fought with hardly a sound.
* * * * *
It was midnight. "T. B." was conducting the rehearsal. For threehours he had poured upon the company the vitriol of his mercilesstongue. For three hours he had raced up and down the aisles of thetheater, alternately yelping commands and taking flying leaps acrossthe footlights to the stage to go through a scene himself. He hadlaughed, he had wept, he had pleaded, he had sworn, he had cooed, hehad roared. He had been strangely gentle with the white-haired old manof the company, and wholly brutal to a young girl who was doingbeautiful work. He had reduced every woman to tears and every man tosmothered and stuttering profanity. And all the time, sitting in myseat in the auditorium, I had watched him as dispassionately and withalmost as detached an interest as if he were a manikin pulled byinvisible wires and given speech by some ventriloquist. It was all abad dream. He did not exist. We were not really there. The things hesaid to the company swept by my ears like the wail of a winter wind,leaving an occasional chill behind them. The remarks he addresseddirectly to me touched some cell of my brain which mechanically butclearly responded. I struck out lines and gave him new speeches,scrawling them with a pencil on a pad upon my knee; I "rebuilt" thecurtain speech of the second act according to his sudden notion and tohis momentary content; I transferred scenes and furnished new cueswhile he waited for the copy with impatiently extended hand. All thetime the hush of the sick-room lay around me; I saw the still figurein the great four-poster bed.
I had never seen Godfrey Morris's bedroom, though his sister had shownme his study. But now it was clear in every detail--the polished,uncarpeted floor, the carved pineapple tops of the four-poster, thegreat windows, open at top and bottom, the logs on the brass andironsin the grate, the brass-bound wood-box near it, the soft glow of thenight lamps, the portrait of his mother which Sargent had painted tenyears ago and which Godfrey had hung in his own room at the front ofhis bed. Yes, I remembered now, he had told me about the portrait.That was why I saw it so plainly, facing him as he lay unconscious. Hehad told me about the four-poster, too, and the high-boys in the room,and some chests of drawers he had picked up. He was interested in oldmahogany. No, he was not interested now in anything. He was "in astupor-like," Crumley had said. "_The--crisis--is--expected--to-night._"
"Great Scott, Miss Merrick!" shouted "T. B." "Don't you realize thatthe woman would have hysterics at this point? First she'd whimper,then she'd cry, then she'd shriek and find she couldn't stop. Likethis--"
The theater filled with strange sounds--the wail of a banshee, theyelps of a suffering dog, a series of shrieks like the danger-blastsof a locomotive whistle. Something in me lent an ear to them andwondered what they meant. Surely they could not mean that my heroinewas to have an attack of hysteria at that moment in my play. That wasall wrong--wholly outside of the character and the scene; enough,indeed, to kill the comedy, to turn it into farce.
"That's the idea," I heard "T. B." say. "Now you try it. Here, we'lldo it together."
Something flamed within me, instinctive, intense. I half rose, thensank numbly back into my chair. What did it matter? The only thingthat disturbed me was the noise. The uproar beat against my eardrumsin waves of sound that threatened to burst them. My nightmare wasgrowing worse. Was it taking me to Bedlam? Was I shrieking, too? Imust not shriek in the big, quiet room where the silent figure lay "ina stupor-like."
The chair beside me creaked. Gibson had dropped into it. "T. B." andMiss Merrick were on the top notes of their hysteria, but suddenly Iceased to hear them. Every sense I had hung on the new-comer's words."No change," said Gibson, briefly. "None expected till three or fouro'clock. Thought I'd drop in, anyway. Say"--a wraith of his wide andboyish grin appeared--"what's going on? Is _this_ your rehearsal?"
The question meant nothing to me.
"Did you see any of the family?" I whispered.
Gibson nodded.
"Miss Morris came in for a minute at midnight," he told me, "while Iwas having supper. I opened the door of Godfrey's room an inch, too,and saw him through the crack."
"See here!" "T. B." was bellowing to a frightened boy on the stage."You're not giving an imitation of Corbett entering the ring; you'resupposed to be a gentleman coming into a drawing-room. See? Hook inyour spine an' try it. And now you're not havin' a hair-cut. You'regreeting a lady. And you're not makin' a face at her, either. You'resmiling at her. Smile, smile--my God, man, smile! Try it. T-r-y-y it!"
His voice broke. He seemed about to burst into tears. I caughtGibson's arm.
"Oh, Billy," I gulped, "how did he look?"
Gibson patted my hand glancing away from me as he answered.
"Very quiet," he said. "He's unconscious. The nurse said he was'resting comfortably.' That's their pet formula, you know.Occasionally he mutters something--a few disconnected words. By Jove,what _is_ that fellow doing now?"
I followed the direction of his eyes. "T. B.
" had taken one of hisflying leaps over the footlights, assisted midway by a chair in theaisle which served the purpose of a spring-board in this acrobaticfeat. Now he was at the right first entrance, swaggering through theopen door, his hands deep in his pockets, every tooth in his headrevealed in a fixed and awful grin. Yet, strangely, through theswagger, under the grin, one detected for an instant somethingresembling a well-bred college boy entering a drawing-room--something,too, of radiant youth, irresponsible and charming.
"Jove," breathed Gibson, "he gets it, somehow, doesn't he? One seesexactly what he's driving at."
But the little scene had faded as I looked at it, like a negativedimming in the light. The door that opened was the door of thesick-room, and the man who had entered was one of the specialists whowatched over Godfrey to-night. I saw him approach the bed and leanover the patient, looking at him in silence for a moment, his fingeron the pulse of the thin hand that lay so still. Somewhere near awoman was sobbing. Was it Mrs. Morris, or the young girl in the wings?I did not know. "T. B.'s" voice was cutting its way to me like theblast of a steam siren through a fog.
"Miss Iverson," he yelled. "Cut out that kid's love scene. He can't doit, and no one wants it there, anyway. You've got some drama here now,and, by Heaven, it's about time you had! Don't throw it away. Keep toit." His voice broke on the last words. Again he seemed to be on theverge of tears. "_Keep--to--it_," he almost sobbed.
I carried my manuscript to a point in the wings where, vaguely aidedby one electric light hanging far above me, I could make the changesfor which "T. B." had asked. They meant new cues for severalcharacters and a number of verbal alterations in their lines. Fardown within me something sighed over the loss of that lovescene--sighed, and then moaned over the loss of something else. "T.B.," his chin on his chest, his eyes on the floor, brooded somberly inan orchestra seat until we were ready to go over the revised scene. AsI finished, Stella Merrick leaned over me, her hand clutching my leftshoulder in a grip that hurt. Her teeth were chattering withnervousness.
"How _can_ you be so calm?" she gasped. "I've never seen him asdevilish as he is to-night. If you hadn't kept your nerve we'd allhave gone to smash. As it is, I have a temperature of a hundred andfour!"
I wondered what Godfrey's temperature was. Gibson had not told me.There must be a fever-chart in the sick-room. It seemed almost as if Icould read it. Certainly I could see the jagged peaks of it, the lastpoint running off in a long wavering line of weakness. Perhaps Gibsonknew what the temperature was. But when I returned to my seat in theorchestra Gibson was no longer there.
"Open some of those windows," ordered "T. B.," irritably. "It's like afurnace in here."
Was that an ice-cap on Godfrey's head? Of course. The nurse waschanging it for a fresh one. For a moment, the first in that endlessnight, I seemed to see his face, waxen, the sensitive nostrilspinched, the gray eyes open now and staring unseeingly into space.
"No change," said Gibson's voice.
Another period of time had dragged its way past me like a sluggishsnake.
"What o'clock?" I heard myself ask.
Gibson looked at his watch.
"Quarter of two," he told me, snapping the case shut. "I saw Dr.Weymarth just before I left."
"What did he say?"
Gibson's eyes shifted from mine, which vainly tried to hold them.
"No change," he repeated.
"Was that all?"
Gibson's eyes returned to mine for an instant and shifted again.
"Tell me," I insisted.
"He's disappointed in the heart. It's been holding its own, though thetemperature has been terrific from the first. But since midnight--"
"Yes, since midnight--"
"It's not quite so strong."
Gibson's words came slowly, as if against his will. There was astrange silence over the theater. Through it the voice of "T. B."ripped its way to us.
"Now we'll run through that scene again. And if the author and theladies and gentlemen of the company will kindly remember that this isa rehearsal, and not an afternoon tea, perhaps we'll get somewhere."
"Billy," I whispered, "I can't bear it."
"I know." Gibson patted my hand. "Sit tight," he murmured. "I'm offagain. I'll be back in an hour or so. By then they ought to know."
I watched him slip like a shadow through the dark house, along thewall, and back toward the stage-door. The voice of Stella Merrick wasfilling the theater. I heard my name.
"Miss Iverson doesn't agree with me," she was saying, "but I thinkthat in this scene, when we are reconciled and I say to my husband,'My boy,' he ought to answer, 'My mumsey!'"
"T. B.'s" reply sounded like a pistol-shot.
"What for?" he exploded. "Want to turn this play into a farce?"
"Certainly _not_!"
"Then follow the lines."
It was the settlement for all time of an argument which Miss Merrickand I had waged for weeks. One scene at least, the final, vital scene,would be spared to me. I felt a throb of gratitude, followed by asudden sick, indescribable sinking of the heart. Had I for one instantforgotten? I remembered again. Nothing mattered. Nothing would evermatter.
Some one sat down beside me, smiled at me, then stared frankly. "GoodHeaven, Miss Iverson, did I frighten you?" cried Elman. "You look likea ghost!"
Before I could answer, "T. B." approached us both. Leaning over Elman,he nodded toward the youth who was still vainly trying to act like agentleman.
"Get rid of him."
"But we open in Atlantic City to-morrow night--" began Elman.
"Get rid of him." "T. B.'s" tones permitted no argument. "Get rid ofHaskins, too, and of Miss Arnold."
"But, great Scott, Governor--"
Elman's voice, usually so controlled, was almost a wail. "T. B."strolled away. To "open" the next night with three new members in thecompany seemed impossible. Probably we wouldn't open at all. Byto-morrow night I would know. Godfrey would be out of danger, orGodfrey would be--Why didn't Gibson come? Elman murmured something tome about "not taking it so hard," but I caught only a few words. Hesaid it could be done--that he had the right people at hand. He wouldsee them the first thing in the morning, and go over the lines withthem and have them word-perfect by night.
My eyes were strained in the direction of the stage-door. My ears wereawaiting the sound of Gibson's quick footsteps. For now, I knew, inthe sick-room, where my mind and heart had been all night, the crisiswas near. Through the open windows the blue-gray dawn was visible. Theshaded lights were taking on a spectral pallor. Nurse and doctors wereclose to the bed, watching, listening for the change that meant lifeor death.
"Good--mighty good!" whispered Elman.
On the stage Miss Merrick and Peyton, the leading man, were goingthrough their final scene. The familiar words, over which I hadlabored for months, came to me as if out of a life I had lived on someother planet ages back.
"You seem so far away," said the man. "I feel as if I'd have to callacross the world to make you hear me. But I love you. Oh, Harriet,can't you hear that?"
The voice of his wife, who was forgiving him and taking him back,replied with the little break in its beautiful notes which StellaMerrick always gave to her answer.
"Yes, dear; I guess I'd hear that anywhere." And then, as she drew hishead to her breast, "My boy!"
Within me something alive, suffering and struggling, cried out in sickrevolt. What did these puppets know about love? What had I known aboutit when I wrote so arrogantly? But I knew now. Oh yes, I knew now.Love and suspense and agony--I knew them all.
On the dim stage the leading man and woman melted into the embracethat accompanied the slow fall of the curtain. In the wings, but wellin view, the members of the company clustered, watching the finalscene and wiping their wet eyes. They invariably cried over thatscene, partly because the leading man and woman set the example, butmore because they were temperamental and tired. Even the brillianteyes of Elman, who still sat beside me, took on a sudden softness. He
smiled at "T. B.," who had dropped into a seat near us.
"No change there, I guess," he hazarded.
"T. B." looked at his watch.
"Quarter of four," he said, with surprise. Then he yawned, and,rising, reached for his light overcoat which lay on the back of achair.
"That's all," he called, as he struggled into it. "Boyce, study yourlines to-morrow, or you're going to have trouble. Peyton, you and MissMason better go over that scene in the second act in the morning.So-long, Miss Merrick."
He started to go, then stopped at my seat.
"Good night, Miss Iverson," he said, kindly. "You've got the rightnerve for this business. Of course we can't make predictions, but Ishouldn't wonder if we're giving the public what they want in thisplay."
He nodded and was gone. I had barely caught his words. Over his bigshoulders I saw Gibson approaching, his face one wide, expansive grin.Never before had anything seemed so beautiful to me as that familiarGibson smile. Never had I dreamed I could be so rapturously happy inseeing it.
"Good news," he said, as soon as he came within speaking-distance; andhe added when he reached me, "He's better. The doctors say they'llpull him through."
At the first glimpse of him I had risen to my feet with some vagueimpulse to take, standing, whatever was coming. For a moment I stoodquite still. Then the thing of horror that had ridden me through thenight loosened its grip slowly, reluctantly, and I drew a deep, deepbreath. I wanted to throw myself in Gibson's arms. I wanted to laugh,to cry, to shout. But I did none of these things. I merely stood andlooked at him till he took my hand and drew it through his arm.
"Rehearsal's over, I see," he said. "I'm going to hunt up a taxi andtake you home."
Together we went out into the gray morning light, and I stood on thecurb, full-lunged, ecstatic, until Gibson and the taxi-cab appeared.He helped me into the cab and took the seat beside me.
"You ought to go home," I murmured, with sudden compunction. "You mustbe horribly tired."
They were my first words. I had made no comment on the message hebrought, and it was clear that he had expected none. Now he smiled atme--the wide, kind, understanding smile that had warmed the five yearsof our friendship.
"Let me do this much for you, May," he said. "You see, it's all I cando."
Our eyes met, and suddenly I understood. An irrepressible cry brokefrom me.
"Oh, Billy," I said. "Not _you_! Not _me_!"
He smiled again.
"Yes," he replied. "Just that. Just you and me. But it's all right.I'd rather be your friend than the husband of any other woman in theworld."
The taxi-cab hummed on its way. The east reddened, then sent up aflaming banner of light. I should have been tired; I should have beenhungry; I should, perhaps, have been excited over "T. B.'s" finalwords. I was none of those things. I was merely in a state of supremecontent. Nothing mattered but the one thing in life which matteredsupremely. Godfrey was better; Godfrey would live!
XII
THE RISE OF THE CURTAIN
On the desk in my study the bell of the telephone sounded a faintwarning, then rang compellingly. It had been ringing thus atfive-minute intervals throughout the day, but there was neitherimpatience nor weariness in the haste with which I responded. I knewwhat was coming; it was the same thing that had been coming since nineo'clock that morning; and it was a pleasant sort of thing, divertingto an exceedingly anxious mind.
"Hello, hello! Is that you, May? This is your awe-struck friend,George Morgan. Josephine and I want to inquire the condition of yourtemperature and your pulse."
I laughed.
"Quite normal, thank you," I said.
"Don't believe it." The sympathetic cadence of George Morgan's voiceremoved all effect of brusqueness from his words. "No playwright wasever normal three hours before the curtain went up on the first nightof her play in New York. Now I'll tell you exactly how you feel."
"Don't," I begged. "I _know_."
"But I must!" my friend's remorseless voice went on. "I've got to showmy insight into the human heart, as you used to say in your conventdays. So here goes. You're sinking into a bottomless pit; you're in ablue funk; your feet are cold and your head is hot; you're breathingwith difficulty; you're struggling with a desire to take the firsttrain out of town; you're wondering if you can't go to bed and staythere. You think no one suspects these things, for you're wearing asmile that looks as if it had been tacked on; but it's so painful thatyour father and mother keep their eyes turned away from it. You're--"
"George, for Heaven's sake--"
"Oh, all right; I merely wanted to show insight and express sympathy.Having lived through four 'first nights' myself, I know what theymean. And say, May,"--his gay voice took on a deeper note--"I needn'ttell you that Josephine and I will be going through the whole thingwith you. We've chosen seats in the fifth row of the orchestra,instead of taking a box, because we both expect to burst into loudsobs of joy during your speech, and we'll feel less exposed down onthe floor. And, oh yes, wait a minute; your god-daughter insists onkissing you through the telephone!"
There was an instance's silence; then the breathless little voice ofMaria Annunciata Morgan, aged "four 'n a half, mos' five," accordingto herself, came to my ear.
"'Lo, May, oh-h, May, 'lo, May," it gurgled, excitedly.
"Hello, babykins," I said. "Is that a new song you've learned thatyou're singing for me?"
"No-o-o." Maria Annunciata's tones showed her scorn for grown-updenseness. "I was just 'ginning my conversation," she added, withdignity.
I apologized.
"An' papa says," went on the adorable childish treble, "'at if yourplay lasses till a mat'nee, I--can--go--an'--see--it!"
"Bless your heart, so you shall, my baby," I laughed. "And if the playlasses only a few minutes, I'll give you a 'mat'nee' all by yourself.Where's that kiss I was to have? I need it very much."
"Here 'tis. Here's fourteen an' 'leven." They came to me over the wirein a succession of reports like the popping of tiny corks. "An' papasays say good-by now, so I mus'. But I love you _very_ mush!"
"Good-by, darling. I love you very mush, too."
I turned from the telephone wonderfully cheered by the little talk,but almost before I had hung up the receiver the bell rang again.
"Hello, May. If you've finished that impassioned love scene with whichyou have kept the wire sizzling for the last half-hour I'd like toutter a few calming words."
Bayard, a brilliantly successful playwright, was talking.
"Feel as if you were being boiled in oil, don't you?" was his cheerybeginning. "Feel as if you were being burned at the stake? Feel as ifyou were being butchered to make a Roman holiday, and all that kind ofthing? But it's nothing to the way you're going to feel as you driveto the theater and as you watch the curtain go up. However, keep astiff upper lip. Margaret and I will be in front, and Margaret saysyou can have my chest to cry on immediately after the performance.Good luck. Good-by."
Again, before I had left the room, the telephone bell recalled me. Ithad been like this all day. I had begun to believe that it wouldalways be like this. Life had resolved itself into a series oftelephone talks, running through a strenuous but not unpleasant dream.Every friend I had seemed determined to call me up and alternate rosygood wishes with dark forebodings of disasters possible through nofault of mine. The voice that came to me now was that of Arthur Locke,the best actor and the most charming gentleman on the American stage.
"Good luck, Miss Iverson," he said, heartily. "I don't need to tellyou all my wife and I wish for you. But I want to give you a word ofwarning about the critics. Don't let anything they do to-night disturbyou. They've all got their bag of tricks, you know, and they gothrough them whether they like the play or not. For example"--hisbeautiful voice took on a delicious quality of sympatheticamusement--"Haskins usually drops off to sleep about the middle ofthe second act. The audience is always immensely impressed by this,and men and women exchange glances and hushed comments o
ver it. But itdoesn't mean anything. He wakes up again. He slept through my entiresecond act last year, and gave me an excellent notice the nextmorning--to show his gratitude, I suppose. Allen usually leaves duringthe middle of the third act, gathering up his overcoat with a wearysigh and marching down the middle aisle so that no one can miss hisdramatic exit. People are so used to it that they don't mind it much.Northrup sits with his eyebrows up in his pompadour, as if painedbeyond expression by the whole performance, and Elkins will take allyour best comedy with sad, sad shakes of the head. To equalize this,however, Webster will grin over your pathetic scenes. The best thingto do is not to look at any of them. You know where their seats are,don't you? Keep your eyes the other way."
"Thank you," I said, faintly. "I think I will."
Beyond question Mr. Locke's intentions had been friendly, but hiswords had not perceptibly soothed my uneasy nerves. Before I walkedfrom my study into my living-room I stopped a moment to straighten myshoulders and take a deep breath. My entire family had come on fromthe West to attend the first-night performance of my play in NewYork--my father, my sister Grace, my brother Jack, now a lieutenant inthe army, even my delicate mother, to whom journeys and excitementwere not among life's usual privileges. They were, I knew, having teatogether, and as I opened the living-room door I found my featurestaking on the stiff and artificial smile I must have unconsciouslyworn all day. A saving memory of George Morgan's words came to me intime, and I banished the smile and soberly entered the room.
The members of the familiar group greeted me characteristically. Mymother, by whose chair I stopped for an instant, smiled up at me insilence, patting my hand. My father drew a deep, inviting chair closeto the open fire; my brother brought me the cup of tea my sisterhurriedly prepared. Each beloved face wore a look of acute nervousstrain, and from the moment of my entrance every one talked at once,on subjects so remote from the drama that it seemed almost improper tointroduce it by repeating the telephone conversations I had just had.I did so, however, and in the midst of the badinage that followed,Stella Merrick, our "star," was announced.
She lived across the Square from me, and she promptly explained as shedrank her tea that she had been "too nervous to stay at home." For hercomfort I repeated again the pregnant words of Mr. Locke concerningthe New York critics, and she nodded in depressed confirmation. Duringthe close association required by our rehearsals, and our monthstogether "on the road," I had not analyzed to my satisfaction thecontradictions of Miss Merrick's temperament. She loved every line ofmy play and was admirable, if not ideal, in the leading role. Shefiercely resented the slightest suggestion from me, and combatedalmost every change I wished to make in the text as my work revealeditself to me more clearly during rehearsals and performances. Sheseemed to have a genuine fondness for me and a singular personaldependence. She was uneasy if I missed a rehearsal, and had beenalmost panic-stricken when once or twice during our preliminary tour Ihad missed a first night in an important city. She claimed the creditof all merit in the play and freely passed on to me the criticisms.The slightest suggestion made by the "cub reporter" on any newspaperor the call-boy in any theater seemed to have more weight with herthan any advice of mine. To-day, under the soothing influence of tea,fire-light, and the not too stimulating charms of family conversation,we could see her tense nerves relax.
"I've been working mentally on the critics," she confessed, as shepassed her cup to Grace for the second time. "They're the only personsI've been afraid of here in New York. I know we'll get our audience.We always do. And if Miss Iverson will stand by us, and make a speechwhen she's called for, we're sure to have a brilliant night."
She smiled her charming smile at me.
"But the New York critics are enough to appal the strongest soul," shewent on. "They're so unjust sometimes, so merciless, so fiendishlyclever in suggesting labels that stick to one through life. Do youremember what they said about Miss Carew--that her play was sofeminine she must have done it with crochet needles? And they saidNazimova looked like 'the cussed damosel,' and that Fairbanks had thefigure of Romeo and the face of the apothecary. Those things appal me.So for the last few days I've been working on them mentally. I believein mental science, you know."
She paused for a moment and sat stirring her tea, a reflective hazeover the brilliance of her blue eyes.
"Some way," she resumed, "in the forty-eight hours since I've beentrying the power of mind on them I have ceased to be afraid of thecritics. I realize now that they cannot hurt us or our work. I knowthey are our friends. I have a wonderfully kind feeling for them.Why,"--her voice took on a seductive tenderness, her eyes dwelt on thefire with a dreamy abstraction in their depths--"now I almost love thedamned things!" she ended, peacefully.
My brother Jack choked, then laughed irrepressibly. My sister and Ijoined him. But my mother was staring at Miss Merrick with startledeyes, while Miss Merrick stared back at her with a face full of suddenconsternation.
"Mrs. Iverson," she gasped, "I beg your pardon! I didn't know what Iwas saying. I was--really--thinking aloud!"
Half an hour later I went with her to the elevator for a final word.
"I'm going straight to the theater," she told me. "Be early, won'tyou? And come in to see me for a moment just before we begin."
She took my hands in a grip that hurt.
"We're going to win," she said, as she entered the elevator.
It was almost six. I had barely time to dress, to dine comfortably,and to get to the theater before the curtain rose. At every stage ofmy toilet the inexorable telephone called me; telegrams, too, werecoming from all parts of the country. My heart swelled. Whether Iproved to be a playwright or not, I had friends--many of them newones, made during the progress of this dramatic adventure. They wouldnot be too dearly bought, it seemed to me then, even by failure.
Dinner began as a silent meal. No one cared to talk. I recalled with asardonic smile the invitation of a society friend who had bought threeboxes for my first night and was giving a large dinner to precede theplay. She had expected me to grace that function and to sit in one ofher boxes; and she would never understand, I knew, why I refused to doso. Godfrey Morris was coming at half after seven, with much pomp andhis new limousine, to take us to the theater. His mother and sisterwere giving a box-party, but Godfrey was to sit with us in the bodyof the house. I had frankly refused to have even him join us atdinner. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me with loving sympathy duringthat repast were, I realized, all I could endure. Even Godfrey'sunderstanding gaze would be the one thing too much--because it was sounderstanding.
At the table the first few remarks of the family dropped and lay likevisible, neglected things before us. Then Grace and Jack entered upona discussion which they succeeded in making animated, and in which itwas not necessary that I should take part. It gave me an opportunityto swallow naturally, to try to control the queer fluttering of myheart and the sense of faintness, almost of nausea, that threatened toovercome me. When I went to my room to put on my evening coat I lookedat myself in the long mirror that paneled the door. To my relief, Ilooked quite natural--pale, beyond question, but I never had muchcolor. Of the iciness and rigidity of my hands and feet, of the panicthat shook the very soul of me, no one but myself need know.
I greeted Godfrey with both hands outstretched and a real smile. I hadseen him only once before since his return three days ago from PalmBeach, where he had gone for his convalescence after his attack ofpneumonia. He had come back for my first night--he had made that veryclear--and for a blessed instant my panic vanished in the comfort ofhis presence, of the sure grasp of his firm hands, the look in hisgray eyes. In the next instant it returned with cumulative force. Icould bear failure alone if I had to. Others, many others, had borneit before me, and there was always the future in which one could tryagain. I could bear it before my family, for they would never believethat the fault of failure was mine; or before the eyes of all myfriends, for the theater would be full of them. But to bear it in thepr
esence of Godfrey, to have him see me fail--no, that wasunthinkable. I had reached the point where I must set my teeth, takemy nerves and my imagination in hand, and control them as I had oncecontrolled a team of frantic horses plunging toward a river-bank.
"A good deal like being executed in the public square, isn't it?"asked Godfrey, gently. We were on our way up-town, and now over thewhole party a sudden silence fell. The illuminated sign of the bigBroadway theater was before us: the name of my play and that of our"star" stared at us in letters of fire that took strange shapes beforemy eyes. My own name modestly adorned the tablet on each side of theentrance and the bill-boards in the lobby. The latter, when we enteredit, was banked with flowers. We were early, but the theater wasfilling rapidly, and the usual throng of "first-nighters," equallyready for an execution or a triumph, chatted on the sidewalk andthronged the entrance. The house manager, his coat adorned with awhite carnation, greeted me as we passed in.
"Good luck, Miss Iverson," he said, cordially. "Lots of telegrams herefor you. Wait, I'll get them. Here, Fred, let's have Miss Iverson'stelegrams."
He checked the line at the box-office, thrust a hand through thelittle window, and drew it out with a thick package of the yellowenvelopes. Godfrey held out his hand.
"I'll take care of them, if you wish," he said, and as I nodded hedropped them into a pocket of his coat.
In silence we filed down the aisle to our seats. The boxes werealready filled; the body of the house filled as we watched it. Onevery side were faces I knew and loved--Mrs. Morris and Grace withColonel and Mrs. Cartwell and Mr. and Mrs. Nestor Hurd; the Morgans,with Kittie James and Maudie Joyce, who had come from Chicago for thisbig night in my life; my friend of the rejected dinner and herbrilliantly jeweled guests; a deputation from the _Searchlight_ and mymagazine offices, which, it seemed to me, filled half the house.Mollie Merk was there, and Billy Gibson and Mrs. Hoppen. The occasionhad the atmosphere of a reception. Every one knew every one else;friends chatted with each other across the aisles and visited fromseat to seat. A few came to greet me. The majority mercifully waited,knowing I would wish them to wait. Godfrey, sitting beside me, openedmy program and found the evening bill. As he did so I saw that hishand shook. He followed the direction of my eyes, and his browncheeks flushed.
"I won't deny it," he whispered. "I'm as excited as you are; probablymore so."
Our eyes met. For a moment I almost forgot where we were--almost, butnot quite. Then Godfrey went on.
"But I'm not going to tell you about that now," he said, quietly. "NowI'm thinking of nothing but the play."
I rose hurriedly. "I'm afraid I'm not," I admitted. "I forgot to go toMiss Merrick as I promised."
He rose and went with me. From our places at the end of the left-sideaisle it was easy to slip back of the boxes and behind the scenes.Godfrey waited in the wings while I tapped at the door of MissMerrick's dressing-room and entered. The place seemed very full.Elman, the stage director, was in the group that surrounded the star,and Peyton, our leading man, the latter dressed for his entrance. Bothcame forward at once to shake hands. Miss Merrick, her eyes on themirror, following the last touches of her make-up, smiled at mewithout turning. She was pale under her rouge, and her eyes seemedtwice their usual size, but they brightened as she saw me.
"I'm not going to say a word," I told her. "You know how I feel."
It was clear that she hardly heard me.
"Look at all these," she said. "Everybody's awfully kind."
She waved her hand, indicating the masses of flowers around her, thelitter of telegrams and notes.
"I'm actually frozen with fear," she went on. "But I always am. Itwill pass off soon after we begin. Am I speaking in my usual voice? Itsounds like a whisper to me."
I reassured her and slipped away. Elman, Peyton, and her maid closedround her again. I heard her describing her symptoms in detail as Iclosed the door. I recognized them. They were also mine. The theaterwas dark and the curtain just rising as Godfrey and I returned to ourseats. I was deeply thankful for the gloom that enveloped me. Mymother, sitting at my right, reached out gently and took my hand, butI was hardly conscious of the action. For the moment there was nothingin the world but the lighted stage on which my familiar characters, my"dea', dea' dollies," as Maria Annunciata called them, were goingthrough their parts.
The house was very still. Every head in the great audience was turnedtoward the stage, politely attentive, willing to be interested,waiting to know if interest was there. A moment dragged by, anotherand another--the longest of my life except the moments of the night,three months ago, when I had awaited news from Godfrey's sick-room.And now he was here beside me, superbly well, wholly himself again. Atthe thought my heart melted. My mind swerved for a second from theinterest on which it was focused. I turned and glanced at him. He wasleaning forward in his seat, his gray eyes fixed unwinkingly on thestage, his face pale under its coat of Palm Beach tan. For an instanthe did not know that I was glancing at him; then he turned, and oureyes met in a look which taught me that of all in the crowded house heunderstood best what this hour meant to me, because it meant as muchto him. It was as if we thought with one mind, responded with onenervous system to the influence around us.
At the back of the house a little ripple began, grew, swelled into alaugh. I drew my first deep breath, and felt it echoed by Godfrey atmy side. Again our eyes met. His sparkled in the dimness. Anotherlaugh rippled around us, swelled, reached the balconies, and rolleddown from there. I heard the whisper of silk and the creak of seats asthe members of my family at last settled comfortably into their seats.
"By Jove," whispered Godfrey, "you've got them! They're with you!"
For the time at least we had them. The big, kindly-disposed audience,anxious to be pleased, met every comedy line with a quick responsewhich grew more generous as the moments passed. The entrance of thestar brought an ovation which temporarily checked the progress of theplay. Under it Miss Merrick's brilliant eyes lost their look ofstrain. She touched her highest moments in the pathos of her entrancescene. The audience was again very quiet. Around us handkerchiefsrustled; Godfrey's eyes, meeting mine, were wet, and my heart turnedto water as I looked at them. That he should be moved like that by myplay--no, by _our_ play. Everything, I knew, was _ours_ henceforth.
The curtain went down and the lights flared up. The audience had beenamused, interested, touched. It called out the players and called themout again, while the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, and themembers of the company, smiling now and with all their panic gone,came before the footlights singly and in groups. So far all was well.Whatever happened later, we had had a triumphant first act. Alreadythe play was a third over. I had no fears now as to the success of thesecond act. It was almost wholly comedy, and the comedy had "got over"with a rush. But the third act--I was by no means sure of the thirdact, where our manager's scene of hysteria, the fatal scene he hadintroduced during the dress rehearsal, still claimed its deadlymoments.
My friends were coming up to greet me--George Morgan, Bayard, a dozenof them, congratulatory, jubilant.
"Josephine can't cross the house yet to speak to you herself,"explained George, airily, "because her nose isn't fit to be seen.She's crying for joy over there. She'll get around after the nextact."
"You've got 'em," said Bayard, heartily. "They're _eating_ your comedyand spoiling their complexions over your pathos. What more do youwant? Shall I call for the author now, or wait till the end of thesecond act?"
My mother's gentle voice was in my ear.
"I'm so very happy, dear," she said, quietly.
I looked at my father. The nod he gave me, the expression in his eyes,were the most beautiful things I had ever seen, except the tears inGodfrey's eyes. Except--was it possible that at last I was puttingsome one else before my father? It was possible. It was more thanpossible; it was certain. For Godfrey himself was speaking now, andnothing else had given me the thrill that came at the sound of thequiet voice so close to m
y ear.
"May," he whispered. "Dear May, I'm so glad!"
That was all, but it was gloriously complete. And now the second actwas on, with the rollicking comedy of which I felt so sure. Around usthe audience rocked and laughed, breaking out frequently into littlewhirlwinds of applause. The strain of rehearsals had had its effect onmy feeling for various members of the company, but to-night as Iwatched them it seemed to me that I loved them all, for beyond doubteach was giving all that was in him toward the winning of the successthat now seemed assured.
"Your hand is cold even through your glove," whispered Godfrey."That's the only sign you show of nervousness."
In the darkness he was holding it close.
"It's wonderful to be going through this with you," he whispered.
"It was wonderful of you to come back for it," I said.
He laughed, a little laugh of warm content.
"Do you think I could have kept away?" he asked.
I could not answer. The night was giving me too much. The curtain wascoming down, only to rise again and again and again as the house letitself loose in the joyful tumult of friendly hearts that can at lastlet friendly impulse have its way. Again and again the golden head ofStella Merrick bent before the storm of applause that greeted herrepeated appearance. Again and again the members of the companyresponded, singly and together. Again and again the light flashed up,only to be lowered as the uproar continued.
And now they were calling for the author in an insistent, steady call,from gallery, balcony, and orchestra--a call that tolerated no failureto respond. My knees shook under me as I rose. To walk the length ofthe house and out on that empty, waiting stage seemed impossible, butperhaps I could say something here, standing in my place. For a secondI stood undiscovered; then, as if on a concerted signal, every head inthe house turned toward me. There was a whirl of greeting, ofapplause, which my loyal friends led and prolonged.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" The word came at me from every corner of thetheater. My knees steadied. My voice, as I began, sounded natural,even casual. It seemed all at once the simplest matter in the world tosay a few words to this wonderful audience, so receptive, soenthusiastic, so friendly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. "I shall not try to make a speech. Noauthor should attempt that on a first night. Many are called, and someget up, but very few get over."
I had to stop. These charming people thought that remark was amusing,too, and joyfully applauded it.
"But I am glad of this opportunity," I continued, "to express my deepobligation to our manager, to Miss Merrick, and to the members of thecompany for all they have done for my play. And in their behalf first,and then in my own, I thank you for the wonderful reception you havegiven us."
That was all. There was more applause. The lights flashed up, and fromevery part of the theater the men and women I knew came to me for afew friendly words. The reception took in my little family party andMr. Morris, whose presence among us seemed to interest but not tosurprise the big delegation from the _Searchlight_.
"Now," I whispered to him, as the curtain rose on the third act, "ifonly everything goes well for half an hour more! But the least littlething can wreck an act. If some one sneezes--"
"If any one sneezes during this act," whispered Godfrey, firmly,"he'll never sneeze again."
"Perhaps a cat will run across the stage," I whispered, "or some onein the audience will see a mouse."
Godfrey shook his head.
"This isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "The gods aregiving their personal attention to it."
It seemed, indeed, that they were. The act went on as smoothly as silkthread running through a shuttle. We had a few additional moments ofcelebration at the end of it, when the curtain fell on an audiencethat wiped its eyes over the penultimate line even while it laughedover the last line. I went "behind" for a word of appreciation to MissMerrick and the company before I left the theater. The great bulk of"T. B.," our manager, loomed huge in the star's dressing-room.
"Hello, Miss Iverson!" was his jocund greeting. "You can't always goby the enthusiasm of a first-night audience, but I guess we've got aplay here that will run a year or two."
He shook hands, said something to Miss Merrick about photographs inthe morning, and swung away. Miss Merrick, emotional, almosthysterical, fell upon my neck and kissed me with lips that left roundred spots on my cheeks. Every one was happy. At the front entrancesome of my friends were waiting. There was still one thing I wanted,had to have, indeed, and I got it after I had torn open half a dozenof my telegrams.
Our love, dear May, and our prayers for your success.
SISTER IRMINGARDE.
I handed the message to Maudie and Kittie, who were with me. They hadboth been crying; their eyes moistened again.
"Who would have thought all this could happen, when we wereschool-girls at St. Catharine's!" whispered Maudie. "Do you rememberyour first play, May--the one we girls put on?" I remembered. I couldlaugh at that tragedy now.
I heard Godfrey's voice speaking with a sudden masterfulness.
"If you don't mind," he was saying to my father, "I'll send you homein my car and take May for a little spin in the Park in a taxi-cab. Ithink she needs half an hour of quiet and fresh air."
My father smiled at him.
"I think she does," he agreed.
There were more congratulations, more hand-shaking, before I could getaway. Then I found myself with Godfrey in a taxi-cab which was makingits purring way up Fifth Avenue. It was strangely restful to be alonewith him after the strain and excitement of the past three hours. Iclosed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions, my mind at firsta whirling kaleidoscope in which the scenes of the evening repeatedthemselves over and over. Then, in the darkness and the silence, theybegan to disappear. Suddenly there seemed nothing in the world butGodfrey and me. He had leaned forward and taken my hand. We hadentered the Park and were slipping along an avenue of awake andwatchful trees.
"Well, May," he said, gently.
My heart slipped a beat. There was a new quality in the voice whichthrobbed and shook a little. "I've waited almost five years," he wenton. "Isn't that long enough? Won't you come to me now?"
He held out his arms in the dark cab, and I entered them. From theirwonderful shelter I heard his next words.
"Marrying me," he said, "won't mean that you're giving up anything youhave. You are only adding me to it. I shall be as much interested inyour books and your plays as you are yourself. You know that, don'tyou?"
But I interrupted him. In that moment books and plays seemed like thesnows of yesteryear.
"Godfrey," I said, "do you imagine that I'm thinking of books andplays now? Let's talk about the real things."
The taxi-cab sang on its way. The trees that lined the broad drive ofthe Park raced beside us, keeping us company. Far above them a tinynew moon smiled down. My professional life, like the lights of theAvenue, lay behind me. Little in it seemed to count in the new worldI was entering. Until to-night I had been merely a player waiting inthe wings. Now, out in front, I heard the orchestra playing. Thecurtain of life was going up, and I had my cue in Godfrey's voice.
THE END
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