"I hear that you are homesick. Take this money and return to your native land. It will pay your passage and secure your admission to a home for aged gentlewomen. Do not try to discover the source of the gift."From One Who Loved Your Daughter.
"I hear that you are homesick. Take this money and return to your native land. It will pay your passage and secure your admission to a home for aged gentlewomen. Do not try to discover the source of the gift.
"From One Who Loved Your Daughter.
"A little blossom of comfort bloomed in the old woman's heart, like an edelweiss on a glacier. She packed her few possessions and sailed for America. There was no one to meet her, but she had kept the name and address of the woman editor; she was sure the editor would advise her about getting into the right home. In the mean time she went from the steamer to a cheap New York lodging-house, of which some fellow passenger had told her, and from there she sent a hurried summons to the editor. She was already panic-stricken in this big country, which held the graves of all she loved but one. It suddenly seemed to her as strange, as terrible as Italy. She was afraid of everything—afraid of the people she met, of the sounds she heard, of the prying lodging-house keeper and her red-eyed husband. Most of all, she was afraid of these two, and she had reason to be.
"The editor had not even known the old lady was coming to this country, but she responded to the call the night she received it, for she could tell that the writer was frantic with fear. She climbed three flights of rickety stairs and found the old woman in a state of unreasoning terror, like a lost child in the dark. Already the keepers of the lodging-house had tried to get her money from her; she was hungry, for they did not furnish meals, and she had been afraid to go out for food. The editor took her away from the place that night and home to her own apartment. There she had a long talk with her.
"'Now, Mrs. Driscoll,' she said, 'I want you to forget your troubles if you can and settle down here and be at peace. Leave the matter of the home to me. I will find the right place, and when I have found it I will tell you about it and take you to see it. Then, if you approve, in you go. We will put your money in the bank to-morrow and leave it there until the matter of the home is settled. In the mean time don't think or talk about the future. It may take some time to find the right home. I'm not going to run to you with every hope or disappointment that my investigation brings. Forget about it yourself, but don't think I have forgotten because I am not keeping you stirred up with daily or weekly reports.'
"The old lady settled down like a contented child in its mother's lap. As the weeks passed her eyes lost their look of panic and took on the serenity of age. Her thin figure filled out. She transferred to her only friend something of the devotion she had given her daughter. She was almost happy.
"In the mean time the editor began her investigations, and she at once discovered that it is not easy to find a home for an aged and indigent gentlewoman. All the institutions to which she applied were filled, and each had waiting-lists that looked, she said, 'yards long.' The secretaries were courteous. They almost invariably sent her lists of other institutions, and she wrote to these, or visited them if they were within reach; and the weeks and monthscrawled by, and the city grew hot and stifling. She was worn out by the quest to which she was giving every hour of her spare time, but she was no nearer success than she had been the first day. She had arranged to go to Europe for a rest which she sadly needed, and the date of her sailing was very near. But she could not go and leave her protégée unprovided for, nor could she leave her alone with a servant. Her search became a very serious thing; it kept her awake nights; it got on her nerves; it became an obsession which, waking or sleeping, she could not forget. She began to go down under it, but no one knew that, for she kept it to herself; and the least suspicious person of all her friends was the old lady, who each evening listened for her footstep as one listens for that of the best beloved, coming home."
The Author stopped.
"By Jove!" said the Best Seller, "itisa depressing yarn. Let me see if I can't brighten it up a bit."
But the Author glanced at me. "Forgive me, old man," he said to the Best Seller, who was a friend of his. "I know what you would do. You would certainly brighten it up. You would discover a long-lost son, throw in Thanksgiving at the old home, and wind up with the tango. I think Miss Iverson ought to go on with the story."
He and the Playwright smiled at me. I felt neither nervous nor self-conscious as I took up the story, but the Best Seller openly grumbled.
"I could put some snap in that," he exclaimed. "But go on, Miss Iverson. Only I call this a close corporation."
"There came," I began, "a very hot day. The editor had heard of a home beyond the city limits, where the view was beautiful and the air was pure. She went to see it. The date was the twenty-second of July, and the day was the hottest of the season. At the end of the trolley-line there was a broiling walk in the sun. The editor dragged her weary feet along the dusty road, her eyes on the great brick building she was approaching. Before it a cool lawn sloped down to a protecting hedge. She could see old ladies sitting on benches under trees, and a big lump came into her throat as she thought of her protégée and wondered if at last she had found her a permanent resting-place, if this haven was for her. In the dim reception-room she waited hopefully, but almost the first words of the Sister who finally appeared showed that nothing could be expected from her.
"She was merely repeating all the phrases the editor knew by heart. The place was 'full to overflowing.' There were 'almost two hundred on the waiting-list.' But, of course, there were other places. She rattled off an impressive list. Every home on it was one the editor had already visited or heard from; there was no room, she knew, in any of them. At her side the Sister uttered sympathetic murmurs. It was, she said, very sad. Then briskly she arose.She was a busy woman, and she had already given this caller more time than she could well spare. Perhaps the look on the editor's face checked her steps. Uncertainly for a second she hesitated at the threshold. She could do nothing, but—yes, there was still the impulse of hospitality.
"'Would you like to see our new chapel?' she asked, kindly. 'It is just finished, and we are very proud of it.'
"The editor did not really care to see the new chapel. In her depression she would not have cared to see anything. But she was very warm, very tired, utterly discouraged. She wanted a few quiet moments in which to pull herself together, to rest, to think, and to plan. The new chapel would give her these. She followed the Sister to its dim shelter, and, crossing its threshold, knelt in a pew near the door. Sister Italia, kneeling beside her, suddenly leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.
"'Remember,' she smiled, 'when you pray in a new chapel three prayers are surely answered.'
"The editor returned her smile. Already she was feeling better. The chapel was really beautiful, and its atmosphere was infinitely soothing. Before the altar gleamed one soft light, like a distant star, and like larger stars the rose windows at the right and left seemed to pulse with color. Here and there a black-veiled nun knelt motionless with bowed head. The editor offered two of her prayers: that she might soon find a home for Mrs. Driscoll; that Mrs.Driscoll might be happy and content in the home when she had found it. Then, her eyes still on the distant altar light, her thoughts turned to Mother Elise—at rest in her Roman grave. Here, surely, was a fit setting for thought of her—a convent chapel such as those in which she had spent years of her life. How many vigils she must have had in such a place, how many lonely hours of fasting and of prayer!
"'I wish,' the editor reflected, dreamily, 'I wish I could feel that she is with me in this search for the home. Of course she is—if she knows. I'm sure of that. Butdoesshe know? Or is she in some place so inconceivably remote that even the tears and prayers of her helpless old mother have never reached her? I wish I could know that she is watching—that she won't let me make a mistake.'
"She sighed. Close to her Sister Italia stirred, then rose from her knees and led the way from the chapel. The editor followed. At the outer door of the main building Sister Italia asked a question.
"'Did you offer your three prayers?' she wanted to know.
"The editor reflected. 'I offered two,' she said, slowly. Then a sudden memory came to her, and she smiled. 'Why, yes,' she said, 'I offered all three, without realizing it.'"
The Best Seller interrupted. He was an irrepressible person. "It's still too somber," he said. "But I see now how it can be lightened a bit. Takeyour cue from the musicians. They're playing the Maxixe."
"Hush!" begged the woman with the blue eyes. She turned them on me. There was an odd mist over their cold brilliance. "Please go on, Miss Iverson," she said, gently.
I glanced at the Best Seller. "I'll lighten it a bit," I promised.
The face of the Best Seller brightened. "Good for you!" he exclaimed, elegantly.
"The editor went home," I resumed. "She was very tired and still very much discouraged. The long, hot ride had dispelled the memory of her moments of peace. As she put her key in the lock of her door the old mother heard the sound and came trotting down the hall to meet her. She always did that, and usually she had a dozen questions to ask. Was the editor tired? Had she had a hard day? Had it been very hot in her office? But to-night she asked none of these. She came straight to the editor and laid her hands on the other's shoulders; her face held an odd look, apologetic, almost frightened.
"'Oh, my dear,' she quavered. 'I have a confession to make to you. I have been false to a sacred trust.'
"The editor laughed and led her back into the living-room, where she seated her in a big chair by an open window. She did not believe the old lady had ever been false to any trust, and she was veryanxious to get out of her working-clothes and into cool garments.
"'I suppose it's something simply appalling,' she said. 'Let me fortify myself for it with a bath and a glass of lemonade. Then I'll listen to it.'
"But the old lady shook her head. 'No, no,' she gulped. 'I've waited too long already. Imustdo it now. Oh, listen;pleaselisten!'
"The editor humored her. The old lady was not often unreasonable, and it was clear that she was desperately in earnest. The editor sat down and rested her tired head against the back of her chair while she drew off her gloves.
"'Very well,' she said, 'I'm listening.'
"The old lady began at once. Her words came out with an indescribable effect of breathlessness, as if she could not make her explanation soon enough. She leaned forward, her faded eyes, with their old frightened look, fastened on the editor's face.
"'The day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper, 'she and I had our last talk. She seemed better. Neither of us thought she was very ill. But she said it was wise when she felt well to discuss a few things. She told me how little money we had and where it was, and she said the Mother Superior had promised to let me stay in the convent if ever I needed a home. Then she took off her ring, the Community ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, and handed it to me. 'If I go before you,' she ended, 'I want youto send this ring to our friend in New York—our friend the editor.'
"The old woman stopped. In her hand she held something with which her fingers fumbled. Her head drooped.
"'I forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained her ears to catch. 'When she died so suddenly the next day I forgot everything except her going. When I remembered a few months later I did not know how to send the ring to you, so I waited. And when I came to New York those first horrible days in the lodging-house sent everything else out of my mind.' Her head drooped lower. 'You'll forgive me,' she ended.
"She rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her.
"'Why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. Why should you worry about it?'
"But the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had been checked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'Wait,' she said. 'To-day, this afternoon, I remembered it! The memory came to me with a kind of shock. I thought, "I have never given her the ring." It brought me out of my chair. I started to get the ring at once, but I could not remember where it was. I stood still, trying to think. Then suddenly that came to me, too. It was down in the corner of my biggest trunk, the one I had not unpacked, the one that holdsall my winter things. So I unpacked it—and here is the ring.'
"She held it out. It was a heavy gold band with a raised Latin inscription on its outer surface. The editor took it in her hand, but her mind held only one idea.
"'You unpacked that great trunk,' she gasped, 'this frightfully hot day? With all those furs and flannels? Why, Mrs. Driscoll, howcouldyou do such a thing?'
"The old woman drew a deep breath. 'I had to,' she muttered. Her eyebrows puckered. Plainly, she was puzzled and a little afraid. 'I felt I had to,' she repeated. 'It seemed,' she added, slowly, 'almost like a message from my daughter!'
"The editor turned the ring in her hand and looked at the Latin inscription, and as she did so she saw again, not the face of the beautiful woman who had come to her after her downfall, but the quiet convent chapel in which she herself had knelt that afternoon. A little chill ran the length of her spine. For there were three words on the ring."
The Diplomat leaned forward. "That's interesting," he said. "I didn't know about the inscription. The three words were—"
"'Adveniat Regnum Tuum,'" said the editor.
"'Thy Kingdom Come,'" translated the Best Seller, swiftly, proud of his Latin. "By Jove, the editor got her message, didn't she? I like your ending, Miss Iverson. But it doesn't prove the original point."
The Playwright leaned across the table. "Doesn't it?" she asked, gently. "Then show them the ring, May."
I drew the heavy circle from my finger. In silence it was passed from palm to palm. The glance of the blue-eyed woman touched the face of the Playwright, the Diplomat, and the Author and rested on me. Then she drew a deep breath.
"So it's true!" she said. "You four saw it work out! Where is Mrs. Driscoll now?"
"In the Emerson Home for Gentlewomen," the Diplomat told her. "The best, I think, in this country. You ran out to see her last week, didn't you, Bassinger?"
The Author admitted the charge. "She's very happy there," he said.
At his table at the head of the room our host was on his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began—
But the Best Seller was whispering to me. "It wasn't exactly telepathy," he said, "for no one but the old lady knew anything about that ring. It was just an odd coincidence that sent her burrowing into furs and moth-balls that hot day. But you can make a story of it, Miss Iverson—a good one, too, if you'll work in a lot of drama and pathos."
The stage director rose and rolled up his copy of the play, pushing toward me with his disengaged hand the half-dozen round white peppermints which, arranged on a chalk-lined blue blotter, had been chastely representing my most important characters in their most vital scene. His smooth, round face was pale with fatigue; the glow of his brown eyes had been dimmed by sleepless nights; he had the weary air of a patient man who has listened to too much talk—but not for one moment had he lost his control of the situation or of us.
"That might have made a better picture," he conceded, graciously. "But we can't make any more changes till after the dress rehearsal to-night; and if that goes well we won't want to make any. Don't you worry, Miss Iverson. We've got a winner!"
This, coming from Herbert Elman at the close of our last official conference, was as merciful rain to a parched field, but I was too weary to respond to it, except by a tired smile. Under its stimulation, however, our star, who had been drooping forwardin her chair surveying the peppermints much as Lady Macbeth must have gazed upon the stain on her hand, blossomed in eager acknowledgment.
"Bertie, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, gratefully. "It's simply wonderful how you keep up your enthusiasm after three weeks of work. It was criminal of Miss Iverson and me to drag you here this afternoon. I suppose we had lost our nerve, but that doesn't excuse us."
Elman had started for the door on the cue of his valedictory. At her words he turned and came back to the desk where we sat together, his face stamped with a sudden look of purpose; and upon my little study, in which for the past three hours we had wrangled over a dozen unimportant details, a hush fell, as if now, at last, something had entered which was real and vital. For an instant he stood before us, looking down at us with eyes that held an unaccustomed sternness. Then he spoke.
"I had a few words to say to you two when I came here," he began, "but you were both so edgy that I changed my mind. However, if you're talking about losing your nerve you need them, and I'm going to get them off my chest."
Miss Merrick interrupted him, her blue eyes widening like those of a hurt 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'real-mostfriendly. And now, at the eleventh hour, you're going to spoil everything!"
Her words came out in a little wail. She dropped her head in her hands with a gesture of utter fatigue.
"You are," she ended. "You know you are, and I'mso-otired!"
Elman laughed. No one ever took Stella Merrick seriously, except during her hours on the stage when she ceased to be Stella Merrick at all and entered the soul of the character she was impersonating.
"Nonsense," he said, brusquely. "I'm going to show my friendship by giving you a pointer, that's all."
Miss Merrick drew a deep breath and twisted the corner of her mouth toward me—a trick I had learned from Nestor Hurd five years ago and had 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 rehearse all 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 cumulative effect, and then added, slowly:
"Just before I came here this afternoon T. B. told me that to-night he intends to rehearse the company himself."
I heard Stella Merrick gasp. The little sound seemed to come from a long distance, for the surprise of Elman's announcement had made me dizzy. "T. B." was our manager, better known as "The Governor" and "The Master." He had more friends, more enemies, more successes, more insight, more failures, more blindness, more mannerisms, more brutality, and more critics than any other man in the theatrical world. His specialty was the avoidance of details. He let others attend 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; and this, I had been frequently assured by the company, had been the one redeeming feature of an unusually strenuous theatrical experience. "T. B." never attended any but dress rehearsals, leaving everything to his stage directors until the black hours when he arrived to consider the results they had accomplished. It was not an infrequent thing for him on these occasions to disband the company and drop the play; that he should change part of the cast and most of the "business" seemed almost inevitable. For days I had been striving to accustom myself to the thought that during our dress rehearsal "T. B." would be sitting gloomily down in the orchestra, his eyes on the back drop, his chin on his breast, a victim to that profound depression which seized him when one ofhis new companies was rehearsing one of his new plays. At such times he was said to bear, at the best, a look of utter desolation; at the worst, that of a lost and suffering soul.
At long intervals, when Fate perversely chose to give her screw the final turn for an unhappy playwright, "T. B." himself conducted the last rehearsal, and for several months after one of these tragedies theatrical people meeting on Broadway took each other into quiet corners and discussed what had happened in awed whispers and with fearsome glances behind them. It had not occurred to any of us that "T. B." would be moved to conductourlast rehearsal. This was his busiest 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 slowly under the touch of rouge on the cheeks, took on something of the exaltation of one who dies gloriously for a Cause. She might not survive the experience, it seemed to say, but surely even death under the critical observation of "T. B." would take on some new dignity. If she died in "T. B.'s" presence, "T. B." would see that at least she did it "differently"!
"But, Bertie, that'sgreat!" she exclaimed. "He must have a lot of faith in the play. He must have heard something. He hadn't any idea of conducting when I spoke to him yesterday."
"Oh yes, he had!" Elman's words fell on herenthusiasm as frost falls on a tree in bloom. "He didn't want to rattle you by saying so, that's all. And he isn't doing this work to-night because he's got faith in the play. It's more because he hasn't. He hasn't faith in anything just now. Three of his new plays have gone to the store-house this month, and he's in a beastly humor. You'll have the devil of a time with him."
Miss Merrick sprang to her feet and began to pace the study with restless 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 through what's before us. He'll probably have an entirely new idea of your part, Stella; and I don't doubt he'll want Miss Iverson to rewrite most of her play. But you'll both get through all right. You're not quitters, you know."
His brown eyes, passing in turn from my face to hers, warmed at what he saw in them. When he began to speak we had been relaxed, depressed, almost discouraged. Lack of sleep, nervous strain, endless rehearsals had broken down our confidence and sapped our energy; but now, in the sudden lift of Stella Merrick's head, the quick straightening of her shoulders, I caught a reflection of the changethat was taking place in me. At the first prospect of battle we were both as ready for action as Highland regiments when the bagpipes begin to snarl. Looking at us, Elman's pale face lit up with one of his rare and brilliant smiles.
"That's right," he said, heartily. "A word to the wise. And now I'm really off."
Almost before the door had closed behind him Miss Merrick had seized her hat and was driving her hat-pins through it with quick, determined fingers.
"I'm going home and to bed," she said. "We can both get in three hours' sleep before the rehearsal—and believe me, Miss Iverson, we'll need it! Do you remember what General Sherman said about war? He should have saved his words for a description of 'T. B.'"
I followed her out into the hall and to the elevator door. I felt oddly exhilarated, almost as if I had been given some powerfully stimulating 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 looked back at me. There was a world of meaning in her blue eyes.
"If he did nothing but that, my lamb!" she breathed, and dropped from sight.
I returned to my desk. I had no idea of going to bed. I was no Napoleon, to slumber soundly on the eve of a decisive battle, but there was nothing elseI could do except to sweep the peppermint drops out of sight and tuck the diagrammed blotter behind a radiator. While I was engaged in these homely tasks the bell of my telephone rang.
"Hello, Miss Iverson," I heard when I took down the receiver. "Are you going to be at home to-night?"
My heart leaped at the familiar greeting of Billy Gibson, star reporter of theSearchlight, and one of my stanch friends ever since the days, five long years ago, when he had given me my first lesson in practical reporting. Almost before I could reply to him I noticed something unnatural in the quality of his voice. It was a little too easy, 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 a little 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 out the words. It was for some reason impossible to say more, but Gibson went on without waiting, thus giving me time to think.
"Haven't lost all interest in us, have you, now that you've been away from us a year and are writing plays?" he asked, cheerfully.
"Oh, Billy, what about him?" At last I was able to bring out the words. "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 way down-town and happened to meet one of the consulting physicians. Godfrey's pretty low," he added, gently. "The crisis is expected to-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 forgotten receiver shook in my hand. Every thought but one was wiped out of my mind. Godfrey Morris was ill—very ill. He had been ill for days—perhaps for weeks—and I had not known it because I had been absorbed in my petty interests, which until this moment had seemed so big.
"If you care to have me," went on Gibson, hesitatingly, "I'll telephone you later. I'm to be at the Morris house most of the night and keep the office posted from there. I can call you up once or twice if—it won't disturb you."
I found my voice, but it sounded strange in my own ears. For an instant I had seen myself sitting in my study the long night through, getting messages from the sick-room, but now I remembered my work and the others who were concerned in it.
"Billy," I said, "we're having the dress rehearsal of my play to-night. I may have to be at the BerwyckTheater until three or four in 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 a few blocks from the Berwyck, and I'll be glad of something to do besides receiving and sending bulletins. Tell your door-man to let me pass, and I'll drop in two or three times during the night." His voice changed. "I thought," he added, almost diffidently, "you'd want to know."
"Yes," I said, slowly, "I want to know. Thank you."
I hung up the receiver, which slipped in my stiff fingers. The exhilaration of a few minutes before lay dead within me. I felt cold and numb. From the living-room off my study the light of my open fire winked at me as if in cheery reassurance. I crossed the room and crouched down before it, stretching out shaking hands to the blaze. I seemed to be moving in a nightmare, but with every sense horribly acute. I remembered previous dreams in which I had seemed to see, as I saw now, the familiar objects of my home around me. I heard the beating of my heart, the hammering of the blood in my head, the sound of the quick breath I drew—almost the murmur of Godfrey's voice as he babbled 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 the Berwyckseveral times and give me the latest bulletins. But that would be hours from now, and suddenly I realized that I could not wait. With a rush I was back at the telephone asking for the Morris home. I had neglected Grace Morris during the past few months, as I had 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 Morris butler met my ear.
"Is that you, Crumley?" I asked. "This is Miss Iverson. I've just heard 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 of the doctors are here now. They don't hope for any change till toward morning."
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 very quiet indeed—in a stupor-like."
I hung up the receiver with a steadier hand and sat down, staring straight before me. As I had rallied to Elman's words half an hour ago, so now I tried to meet this new demand upon me. There was nothing I could do for Godfrey; but a few hours later there might be much to do for the manager and the company who were giving my work to the public. I must stand by them and it—that was the one clear fact in a reeling world. I must be very cool,very clear-headed, very alert. I must 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 nothing vital to me. It was as if one side of me had lashed with these reminders of duty another side which remained unmoved. The only thing of which I was vividly conscious was a scene which I suddenly visualized—a sick-room, large and cool and dim, a silent figure in a big bed, doctors and nurses bending over it. At the foot of the bed sat a figure I recognized, Godfrey's mother. Of course she would be there. I saw the gleam of her white hair, the look in the gray eyes which were so like her son's.
"The crisis is expected to-night." The old clock in my hall seemed to be ticking off the words, over and over. The hammering blood in my brain was making them into a refrain which I found myself dully repeating.
With a start I pulled myself together. I was on my feet again, walking back and forth, back and forth, across my study. It was growing late. Through my dark windows the lights of surrounding buildings glowed in at me like evil eyes. I must get ready for my work. Resolutely I held my thoughts to that point for an instant, then they swung away. "The crisis 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 could tear me and my play totatters, he could disband the company and disrupt the universe, if only for a few blessed hours he could keep me from seeing 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 I now 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 petty play, to which in my incredible blindness I had given my time for months, shutting myself away from my friends, shutting myself away from Godfrey. How many times had he telephoned and written? Half a dozen at least. He had urged me to go to a concert or two, to a play or two, but I had been "too busy." It was monstrous, it was unbelievable, 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 in the wings and on the big empty stage, lit by a single "bunch" light. The information that "T. B." himself was to conduct had fallen upon them like a pall. Under its sable influence they whispered together in stricken groups of three or four. Near the right first entrance Elman and Miss Merrick sat, their heads close, the star talking softly but rapidly, Elman listening with his tired, courteous air. They nodded across the stage at me when I appeared, but I did not join them. Instead I slipped down into the dark auditoriumand took my place in an orchestra seat, where I could be alone. The whole thing was a nightmare, of course. I could not possibly be sitting there when only a 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 every figure there, a business-like bustle, and much scurrying to and fro. "T. B." had entered the theater by the front door and was striding down the middle aisle. I saw a huge bulk that loomed grotesque for an instant 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. Other figures—I did not know how many—had entered the dark theater and taken their places around me. From where I sat, half a dozen rows behind him, I had a view of "T. B.'s" hair under the slouch hat he kept on his head, the bulge of his jaw as he turned his profile toward me, the sharp upward angle of the huge cigar in his mouth. The company were in their places in the wings and on the stage. I heard Elman's quick word, "Curtain." The rehearsal had begun. The familiar words of the opening scene rolled over the footlights as cold and vague as a fog 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. It was what Gibson had said that afternoon, a thousand years ago, when he had called me on the telephone.
Things were going badly up there on the stage. Like a patient coming out of ether during an operation, and vaguely conscious of what was passing around her, I had moments of realizing this. Boyce did not know his lines; he was garbling them frightfully, and, by failing to give his associates their cues, was adding to the panic into which "T. B.'s" presence had already thrown them. There! He had ruined Miss Merrick's opening scene, which was flattening out, going to pieces. It seemed as if some one should do something. Yet, what could be done? "The—crisis—is—expected—to-night." What difference did it make what happened on that stage? The conscious interval was over. The babble that came over the footlights meant nothing.
From his orchestra seat, into which he seemed to be sinking deeper as the moments passed, "T. B." sent forth a sardonic croak. It was a horrible noise—nerve-racking. It reached down to where I was submerged, caught me, drew me up to the surface again. I saw the company cringe under it, heard Elman's reprimand of Boyce, and his sharp command to begin the scene again. Confusion, confusion, so much confusion over such little things, when only a few blocks away was that shadowy sick-room in which the great battle between life and death was being fought with hardly a sound.
It was midnight. "T. B." was conducting therehearsal. For three hours he had poured upon the company the vitriol of his merciless tongue. For three hours he had raced up and down the aisles of the theater, alternately yelping commands and taking flying leaps across the footlights to the stage to go through a scene himself. He had laughed, he had wept, he had pleaded, he had sworn, he had cooed, he had roared. He had been strangely gentle with the white-haired old man of the company, and wholly brutal to a young girl who was doing beautiful work. He had reduced every woman to tears and every man to smothered and stuttering profanity. And all the time, sitting in my seat in the auditorium, I had watched him as dispassionately and with almost as detached an interest as if he were a manikin pulled by invisible wires and given speech by some ventriloquist. It was all a bad dream. He did not exist. We were not really there. The things he said to the company swept by my ears like the wail of a winter wind, leaving an occasional chill behind them. The remarks he addressed directly to me touched some cell of my brain which mechanically but clearly responded. I struck out lines and gave him new speeches, scrawling them with a pencil on a pad upon my knee; I "rebuilt" the curtain speech of the second act according to his sudden notion and to his momentary content; I transferred scenes and furnished new cues while he waited for the copy with impatiently extended hand. All the time the hush of the sick-roomlay around me; I saw the still figure in the great four-poster bed.
I had never seen Godfrey Morris's bedroom, though his sister had shown me his study. But now it was clear in every detail—the polished, uncarpeted floor, the carved pineapple tops of the four-poster, the great windows, open at top and bottom, the logs on the brass andirons in the grate, the brass-bound wood-box near it, the soft glow of the night lamps, the portrait of his mother which Sargent had painted ten years ago and which Godfrey had hung in his own room at the front of his 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. He had 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 old mahogany. No, he was not interested now in anything. He was "in a stupor-like," Crumley had said. "The—crisis—is—expected—to-night."
"Great Scott, Miss Merrick!" shouted "T. B." "Don't you realize that the 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. Like this—"
The theater filled with strange sounds—the wail of a banshee, the yelps of a suffering dog, a series of shrieks like the danger-blasts of a locomotive whistle. Something in me lent an ear to them andwondered what they meant. Surely they could not mean that my heroine was to have an attack of hysteria at that moment in my play. That was all 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'll do it together."
Something flamed within me, instinctive, intense. I half rose, then sank numbly back into my chair. What did it matter? The only thing that disturbed me was the noise. The uproar beat against my eardrums in waves of sound that threatened to burst them. My nightmare was growing worse. Was it taking me to Bedlam? Was I shrieking, too? I must not shriek in the big, quiet room where the silent figure lay "in a stupor-like."
The chair beside me creaked. Gibson had dropped into it. "T. B." and Miss Merrick were on the top notes of their hysteria, but suddenly I ceased to hear them. Every sense I had hung on the new-comer's words. "No change," said Gibson, briefly. "None expected till three or four o'clock. Thought I'd drop in, anyway. Say"—a wraith of his wide and boyish grin appeared—"what's going on? Isthisyour 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 I was 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're supposed to be a gentleman coming into a drawing-room. See? Hook in your spine an' try it. And now you're not havin' a hair-cut. You're greeting a lady. And you're not makin' a face at her, either. You're smiling 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 caught Gibson'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, whatisthat fellow doing now?"
I followed the direction of his eyes. "T. B." had taken one of his flying leaps over the footlights, assisted midway by a chair in the aisle which served the purpose of a spring-board in this acrobatic feat. Now he was at the right first entrance, swaggering through the open door, his hands deep in his pockets, every tooth in his head revealed in a fixed and awful grin. Yet, strangely, through the swagger,under the grin, one detected for an instant something resembling 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 sees exactly what he's driving at."
But the little scene had faded as I looked at it, like a negative dimming in the light. The door that opened was the door of the sick-room, and the man who had entered was one of the specialists who watched over Godfrey to-night. I saw him approach the bed and lean over the patient, looking at him in silence for a moment, his finger on the pulse of the thin hand that lay so still. Somewhere near a woman 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 the blast of a steam siren through a fog.
"Miss Iverson," he yelled. "Cut out that kid's love scene. He can't do it, 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 to it." His voice broke on the last words. Again he seemed to be on the verge of tears. "Keep—to—it," he almost sobbed.
I carried my manuscript to a point in the wings where, vaguely aided by one electric light hanging far above me, I could make the changes for which "T. B." had asked. They meant new cues for several characters and a number of verbal alterationsin their lines. Far down within me something sighed over the loss of that love scene—sighed, and then moaned over the loss of something else. "T. B.," his chin on his chest, his eyes on the floor, brooded somberly in an orchestra seat until we were ready to go over the revised scene. As I finished, Stella Merrick leaned over me, her hand clutching my left shoulder in a grip that hurt. Her teeth were chattering with nervousness.
"Howcanyou be so calm?" she gasped. "I've never seen him as devilish as he is to-night. If you hadn't kept your nerve we'd all have gone to smash. As it is, I have a temperature of a hundred and four!"
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 I could read it. Certainly I could see the jagged peaks of it, the last point running off in a long wavering line of weakness. Perhaps Gibson knew what the temperature was. But when I returned to my seat in the orchestra Gibson was no longer there.
"Open some of those windows," ordered "T. B.," irritably. "It's like a furnace in here."
Was that an ice-cap on Godfrey's head? Of course. The nurse was changing it for a fresh one. For a moment, the first in that endless night, I seemed to see his face, waxen, the sensitive nostrils pinched, 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 sluggish snake.
"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 the temperature 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 a strange 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 the ladies and gentlemen of the company will kindly remember that this is a 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 off again. 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 the wall, and back toward the stage-door. The voice of Stella Merrick was filling the theater. I heard my name.
"Miss Iverson doesn't agree with me," she was saying, "but I think that 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?"
"Certainlynot!"
"Then follow the lines."
It was the settlement for all time of an argument which Miss Merrick and 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 a sudden sick, indescribable sinking of the heart. Had I for one instant forgotten? I remembered again. Nothing mattered. Nothing would ever matter.
Some one sat down beside me, smiled at me, then stared frankly. "Good Heaven, Miss Iverson, did I frighten you?" cried Elman. "You look like a 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 a gentleman.
"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 of Haskins, 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 the company seemed impossible. Probably we wouldn't open at all. By to-morrow night I would know. Godfrey would be out of danger, or Godfrey would be—Why didn't Gibson come? Elman murmured something to me about "not taking it so hard," but I caught only a few words. He said it could be done—that he had the right people at hand. He would see them the first thing in the morning, and go over the lines with them and have them word-perfect by night.
My eyes were strained in the direction of the stage-door. My ears were awaiting the sound of Gibson's quick footsteps. For now, I knew, in the sick-room, where my mind and heart had been all night, the crisis was near. Through the open windows the blue-gray dawn was visible. The shaded lights were taking on a spectral pallor. Nurse and doctors were close to the bed, watching, listening for the change that meant life or death.
"Good—mighty good!" whispered Elman.
On the stage Miss Merrick and Peyton, the leading man, were going through their final scene. The familiar words, over which I had labored for months, came to me as if out of a life I had lived on some other planet ages back.
"You seem so far away," said the man. "I feel as if I'd have to call across 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 Stella Merrick always gave to her answer.
"Yes, dear; I guess I'd hear that anywhere." And then, as she drew his head to her breast, "My boy!"
Within me something alive, suffering and struggling, cried out in sick revolt. What did these puppets know about love? What had I known about it 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 embrace that accompanied the slow fall of the curtain. In the wings, but well in view, the members of the company clustered, watching the final scene and wiping their wet eyes. They invariably cried over that scene, partly because the leading man and woman set the example, but more because they were temperamental and tired. Eventhe brilliant eyes 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 a chair.
"That's all," he called, as he struggled into it. "Boyce, study your lines to-morrow, or you're going to have trouble. Peyton, you and Miss Mason 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 right nerve for this business. Of course we can't make predictions, but I shouldn't wonder if we're giving the public what they want in this play."
He nodded and was gone. I had barely caught his words. Over his big shoulders I saw Gibson approaching, his face one wide, expansive grin. Never before had anything seemed so beautiful to me as that familiar Gibson smile. Never had I dreamed I could be so rapturously happy in seeing it.
"Good news," he said, as soon as he came within speaking-distance; and he added when he reached me, "He's better. The doctors say they'll pull him through."
At the first glimpse of him I had risen to my feetwith some vague impulse to take, standing, whatever was coming. For a moment I stood quite still. Then the thing of horror that had ridden me through the night loosened its grip slowly, reluctantly, and I drew a deep, deep breath. 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 and looked 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 and take you home."
Together we went out into the gray morning light, and I stood on the curb, 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 must be horribly tired."
They were my first words. I had made no comment on the message he brought, and it was clear that he had expected none. Now he smiled at me—the wide, kind, understanding smile that had warmed the five years of our friendship.
"Let me do this much for you, May," he said. "You see, it's all I can do."
Our eyes met, and suddenly I understood. An irrepressible cry broke from me.
"Oh, Billy," I said. "Notyou! Notme!"
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 the world."
The taxi-cab hummed on its way. The east reddened, then sent up a flaming banner of light. I should have been tired; I should have been hungry; I should, perhaps, have been excited over "T. B.'s" final words. I was none of those things. I was merely in a state of supreme content. Nothing mattered but the one thing in life which mattered supremely. Godfrey was better; Godfrey would live!
On the desk in my study the bell of the telephone sounded a faint warning, then rang compellingly. It had been ringing thus at five-minute intervals throughout the day, but there was neither impatience nor weariness in the haste with which I responded. I knew what was coming; it was the same thing that had been coming since nine o'clock that morning; and it was a pleasant sort of thing, diverting to 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 your temperature and your pulse."
I laughed.
"Quite normal, thank you," I said.
"Don't believe it." The sympathetic cadence of George Morgan's voice removed all effect of brusqueness from his words. "No playwright was ever normal three hours before the curtain went up on the first night of her play in New York. Now I'll tell you exactly how you feel."
"Don't," I begged. "Iknow."
"But I must!" my friend's remorseless voice went on. "I've got to show my insight into the human heart, as you used to say in your convent days. So here goes. You're sinking into a bottomless pit; you're in a blue funk; your feet are cold and your head is hot; you're breathing with difficulty; you're struggling with a desire to take the first train out of town; you're wondering if you can't go to bed and stay there. You think no one suspects these things, for you're wearing a smile that looks as if it had been tacked on; but it's so painful that your 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 they mean. And say, May,"—his gay voice took on a deeper note—"I needn't tell you that Josephine and I will be going through the whole thing with you. We've chosen seats in the fifth row of the orchestra, instead of taking a box, because we both expect to burst into loud sobs of joy during your speech, and we'll feel less exposed down on the floor. And, oh yes, wait a minute; your god-daughter insists on kissing you through the telephone!"
There was an instance's silence; then the breathless little voice of Maria Annunciata Morgan, aged "four 'n a half, mos' five," according to 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 that you're singing for me?"
"No-o-o." Maria Annunciata's tones showed her scorn for grown-up denseness. "I was just 'ginning my conversation," she added, with dignity.
I apologized.
"An' papa says," went on the adorable childish treble, "'at if your play lasses till a mat'née, I—can—go—an'—see—it!"
"Bless your heart, so you shall, my baby," I laughed. "And if the play lasses only a few minutes, I'll give you a 'mat'née' 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 wire in a succession of reports like the popping of tiny corks. "An' papa says say good-by now, so I mus'. But I love youverymush!"
"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 which you have kept the wire sizzling for the last half-hour I'd like to utter 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 cheery beginning. "Feel as if you were being burned at the stake? Feel as if you were being butchered to make a Roman holiday, and all that kind of thing? But it's nothing to the way you're going to feel as you drive to the theater and as you watch the curtain go up. However, keep a stiff upper lip. Margaret and I will be in front, and Margaret says you 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. It had been like this all day. I had begun to believe that it would always be like this. Life had resolved itself into a series of telephone talks, running through a strenuous but not unpleasant dream. Every friend I had seemed determined to call me up and alternate rosy good wishes with dark forebodings of disasters possible through no fault 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 tell you all my wife and I wish for you. But I want to give you a word of warning about the critics. Don't let anything they do to-night disturb you. They've all got their bag of tricks, you know, and they go through them whether they like the play or not. For example"—his beautiful voice took on a delicious quality of sympathetic amusement—"Haskinsusually drops off to sleep about the middle of the second act. The audience is always immensely impressed by this, and men and women exchange glances and hushed comments over it. But it doesn't mean anything. He wakes up again. He slept through my entire second act last year, and gave me an excellent notice the next morning—to show his gratitude, I suppose. Allen usually leaves during the middle of the third act, gathering up his overcoat with a weary sigh and marching down the middle aisle so that no one can miss his dramatic 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 pained beyond expression by the whole performance, and Elkins will take all your best comedy with sad, sad shakes of the head. To equalize this, however, Webster will grin over your pathetic scenes. The best thing to 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 his words had not perceptibly soothed my uneasy nerves. Before I walked from my study into my living-room I stopped a moment to straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. My entire family had come on from the West to attend the first-night performance of my play in New York—my father, my sister Grace, my brother Jack, now a lieutenant in the army, even my delicate mother,to whom journeys and excitement were not among life's usual privileges. They were, I knew, having tea together, and as I opened the living-room door I found my features taking on the stiff and artificial smile I must have unconsciously worn all day. A saving memory of George Morgan's words came to me in time, and I banished the smile and soberly entered the room.
The members of the familiar group greeted me characteristically. My mother, by whose chair I stopped for an instant, smiled up at me in silence, patting my hand. My father drew a deep, inviting chair close to the open fire; my brother brought me the cup of tea my sister hurriedly prepared. Each beloved face wore a look of acute nervous strain, and from the moment of my entrance every one talked at once, on subjects so remote from the drama that it seemed almost improper to introduce 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 she drank her tea that she had been "too nervous to stay at home." For her comfort I repeated again the pregnant words of Mr. Locke concerning the New York critics, and she nodded in depressed confirmation. During the close association required by our rehearsals, and our months together "on the road," I had not analyzedto my satisfaction the contradictions of Miss Merrick's temperament. She loved every line of my play and was admirable, if not ideal, in the leading rôle. She fiercely resented the slightest suggestion from me, and combated almost every change I wished to make in the text as my work revealed itself to me more clearly during rehearsals and performances. She seemed to have a genuine fondness for me and a singular personal dependence. She was uneasy if I missed a rehearsal, and had been almost panic-stricken when once or twice during our preliminary tour I had missed a first night in an important city. She claimed the credit of all merit in the play and freely passed on to me the criticisms. The slightest suggestion made by the "cub reporter" on any newspaper or the call-boy in any theater seemed to have more weight with her than 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 she passed her cup to Grace for the second time. "They're the only persons I'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 speech when 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," she went on. "They're so unjust sometimes, so merciless, so fiendishly clever in suggesting labels that stick to one through life. Do you remember what they said about Miss Carew—that her play was so feminine she must have done it with crochet needles? And they said Nazimova looked like 'the cussed damosel,' and that Fairbanks had the figure 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 believe in mental science, you know."
She paused for a moment and sat stirring her tea, a reflective haze over the brilliance of her blue eyes.
"Some way," she resumed, "in the forty-eight hours since I've been trying the power of mind on them I have ceased to be afraid of the critics. I realize now that they cannot hurt us or our work. I know they are our friends. I have a wonderfully kind feeling for them. Why,"—her voice took on a seductive tenderness, her eyes dwelt on the fire with a dreamy abstraction in their depths—"now I almost love the damned things!" she ended, peacefully.
My brother Jack choked, then laughed irrepressibly. My sister and I joined him. But my mother was staring at Miss Merrick with startled eyes, while Miss Merrick stared back at her with a face full of sudden consternation.
"Mrs. Iverson," she gasped, "I beg your pardon!I didn't know what I was 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't you? 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 of my toilet the inexorable telephone called me; telegrams, too, were coming from all parts of the country. My heart swelled. Whether I proved to be a playwright or not, I had friends—many of them new ones, made during the progress of this dramatic adventure. They would not 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 a sardonic smile the invitation of a society friend who had bought three boxes for my first night and was giving a large dinner to precede the play. She had expected me to grace that function and to sit in one of her boxes; and she would never understand, I knew, why I refused to do so. Godfrey Morris was coming at half after seven, with much pomp and his new limousine, to take us to the theater. His mother and sister weregiving a box-party, but Godfrey was to sit with us in the body of the house. I had frankly refused to have even him join us at dinner. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me with loving sympathy during that repast were, I realized, all I could endure. Even Godfrey's understanding gaze would be the one thing too much—because it was so understanding.
At the table the first few remarks of the family dropped and lay like visible, neglected things before us. Then Grace and Jack entered upon a discussion which they succeeded in making animated, and in which it was not necessary that I should take part. It gave me an opportunity to swallow naturally, to try to control the queer fluttering of my heart and the sense of faintness, almost of nausea, that threatened to overcome me. When I went to my room to put on my evening coat I looked at myself in the long mirror that paneled the door. To my relief, I looked quite natural—pale, beyond question, but I never had much color. Of the iciness and rigidity of my hands and feet, of the panic that shook the very soul of me, no one but myself need know.