Mollie Merk was there, and Billy Gibson and Mrs. Hoppen. The occasion had the atmosphere of a reception. Every one knew every one else; friends chatted with each other across the aisles and visited from seat to seat. A few came to greet me. The majority mercifully waited, knowing I would wish them to wait. G.o.dfrey, sitting beside me, opened my program and found the evening bill. As he did so I saw that his hand shook. He followed the direction of my eyes, and his brown cheeks flushed.

"I won't deny it," he whispered. "I'm as excited as you are; probably more so."

Our eyes met. For a moment I almost forgot where we were--almost, but not quite. Then G.o.dfrey went on.

"But I'm not going to tell you about that now," he said, quietly. "Now I'm thinking of nothing but the play."

I rose hurriedly. "I'm afraid I'm not," I admitted. "I forgot to go to Miss Merrick as I promised."

He rose and went with me. From our places at the end of the left-side aisle it was easy to slip back of the boxes and behind the scenes.

G.o.dfrey waited in the wings while I tapped at the door of Miss Merrick'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. Both came forward at once to shake hands. Miss Merrick, her eyes on the mirror, following the last touches of her make-up, smiled at me without turning. She was pale under her rouge, and her eyes seemed twice 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 ma.s.ses of flowers around her, the litter of telegrams and notes.

"I'm actually frozen with fear," she went on. "But I always am. It will pa.s.s off soon after we begin. Am I speaking in my usual voice? It sounds like a whisper to me."

I rea.s.sured her and slipped away. Elman, Peyton, and her maid closed round her again. I heard her describing her symptoms in detail as I closed the door. I recognized them. They were also mine. The theater was dark and the curtain just rising as G.o.dfrey and I returned to our seats. I was deeply thankful for the gloom that enveloped me. My mother, sitting at my right, reached out gently and took my hand, but I was hardly conscious of the action. For the moment there was nothing in the world but the lighted stage on which my familiar characters, my "dea', dea' dollies," as Maria Annunciata called them, were going through their parts.

The house was very still. Every head in the great audience was turned toward the stage, politely attentive, willing to be interested, waiting to know if interest was there. A moment dragged by, another and another--the longest of my life except the moments of the night, three months ago, when I had awaited news from G.o.dfrey's sick-room.

And now he was here beside me, superbly well, wholly himself again. At the thought my heart melted. My mind swerved for a second from the interest on which it was focused. I turned and glanced at him. He was leaning forward in his seat, his gray eyes fixed unwinkingly on the stage, his face pale under its coat of Palm Beach tan. For an instant he did not know that I was glancing at him; then he turned, and our eyes met in a look which taught me that of all in the crowded house he understood best what this hour meant to me, because it meant as much to him. It was as if we thought with one mind, responded with one nervous system to the influence around us.

At the back of the house a little ripple began, grew, swelled into a laugh. I drew my first deep breath, and felt it echoed by G.o.dfrey at my side. Again our eyes met. His sparkled in the dimness. Another laugh rippled around us, swelled, reached the balconies, and rolled down from there. I heard the whisper of silk and the creak of seats as the members of my family at last settled comfortably into their seats.

"By Jove," whispered G.o.dfrey, "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 response which grew more generous as the moments pa.s.sed. The entrance of the star brought an ovation which temporarily checked the progress of the play. Under it Miss Merrick's brilliant eyes lost their look of strain. She touched her highest moments in the pathos of her entrance scene. The audience was again very quiet. Around us handkerchiefs rustled; G.o.dfrey's eyes, meeting mine, were wet, and my heart turned to water as I looked at them. That he should be moved like that by my play--no, by _our_ play. Everything, I knew, was _ours_ henceforth.

The curtain went down and the lights flared up. The audience had been amused, interested, touched. It called out the players and called them out again, while the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, and the members 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. Already the play was a third over. I had no fears now as to the success of the second 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 third act, where our manager's scene of hysteria, the fatal scene he had introduced during the dress rehearsal, still claimed its deadly moments.

My friends were coming up to greet me--George Morgan, Bayard, a dozen of 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 next act."

"You've got 'em," said Bayard, heartily. "They're _eating_ your comedy and spoiling their complexions over your pathos. What more do you want? Shall I call for the author now, or wait till the end of the second 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 in G.o.dfrey's eyes. Except--was it possible that at last I was putting some one else before my father? It was possible. It was more than possible; it was certain. For G.o.dfrey himself was speaking now, and nothing else had given me the thrill that came at the sound of the quiet voice so close to my ear.

"May," he whispered. "Dear May, I'm so glad!"

That was all, but it was gloriously complete. And now the second act was on, with the rollicking comedy of which I felt so sure. Around us the audience rocked and laughed, breaking out frequently into little whirlwinds of applause. The strain of rehearsals had had its effect on my feeling for various members of the company, but to-night as I watched them it seemed to me that I loved them all, for beyond doubt each was giving all that was in him toward the winning of the success that now seemed a.s.sured.

"Your hand is cold even through your glove," whispered G.o.dfrey.

"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 was coming down, only to rise again and again and again as the house let itself loose in the joyful tumult of friendly hearts that can at last let friendly impulse have its way. Again and again the golden head of Stella Merrick bent before the storm of applause that greeted her repeated appearance. Again and again the members of the company responded, 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 failure to respond. My knees shook under me as I rose. To walk the length of the house and out on that empty, waiting stage seemed impossible, but perhaps I could say something here, standing in my place. For a second I stood undiscovered; then, as if on a concerted signal, every head in the house turned toward me. There was a whirl of greeting, of applause, which my loyal friends led and prolonged.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" The word came at me from every corner of the theater. My knees steadied. My voice, as I began, sounded natural, even casual. It seemed all at once the simplest matter in the world to say a few words to this wonderful audience, so receptive, so enthusiastic, so friendly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. "I shall not try to make a speech. No author should attempt that on a first night. Many are called, and some get 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 deep obligation to our manager, to Miss Merrick, and to the members of the company 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 have given us."

That was all. There was more applause. The lights flashed up, and from every part of the theater the men and women I knew came to me for a few friendly words. The reception took in my little family party and Mr. Morris, whose presence among us seemed to interest but not to surprise the big delegation from the _Searchlight_.

"Now," I whispered to him, as the curtain rose on the third act, "if only everything goes well for half an hour more! But the least little thing can wreck an act. If some one sneezes--"

"If any one sneezes during this act," whispered G.o.dfrey, firmly, "he'll never sneeze again."

"Perhaps a cat will run across the stage," I whispered, "or some one in the audience will see a mouse."

G.o.dfrey shook his head.

"This isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "The G.o.ds are giving their personal attention to it."

It seemed, indeed, that they were. The act went on as smoothly as silk thread running through a shuttle. We had a few additional moments of celebration at the end of it, when the curtain fell on an audience that wiped its eyes over the penultimate line even while it laughed over the last line. I went "behind" for a word of appreciation to Miss Merrick and the company before I left the theater. The great bulk of "T. B.," our manager, loomed huge in the star's dressing-room.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Iverson!" was his jocund greeting. "You can't always go by the enthusiasm of a first-night audience, but I guess we've got a play here that will run a year or two."

He shook hands, said something to Miss Merrick about photographs in the morning, and swung away. Miss Merrick, emotional, almost hysterical, fell upon my neck and kissed me with lips that left round red spots on my cheeks. Every one was happy. At the front entrance some 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 dozen of my telegrams.