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. "I know."

"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 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 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—"Haskins usually 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 analyzed to 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 were giving 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.

I greeted Godfrey with both hands outstretched and a real smile. I had seen him only once before since his return three days ago from Palm Beach, where he had gone for his convalescence after his attack of pneumonia. He had come back for my first night—he had made that very clear—and for a blessed instant my panic vanished in the comfort of his presence, of the sure grasp of his firm hands, the look in his gray eyes. In the next instant it returned with cumulative force. I could bear failure alone if I had to. Others, many others, had borne it before me, and there was always the future in which one could try again. I could bear it before my family, for they would never believe that the fault of failure was mine; or before the eyes of all my friends, for the theater would be full of them. But to bear it in the presence of Godfrey, to have him see me fail—no, that was unthinkable. I had reached the point where I must set my teeth, take my nerves and my imagination in hand, and control them as I had once controlled 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 the whole party a sudden silence fell. The illuminated sign of the big Broadway 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 before my eyes. My own name modestly adorned the tablet on each side of the entrance and the bill-boards in the lobby. The latter, when we entered it, was banked with flowers. We were early, but the theater was filling rapidly, and the usual throng of "first-nighters," equally ready for an execution or a triumph, chatted on the sidewalk and thronged the entrance. The house manager, his coat adorned with a white carnation, greeted me as we passed in.

"Good luck, Miss Iverson," he said, cordially. "Lots of telegrams here for you. Wait, I'll get them. Here, Fred, let's have Miss Iverson's telegrams."

He checked the line at the box-office, thrust a hand through the little window, and drew it out with a thick package of the yellow envelopes. Godfrey held out his hand.

"I'll take care of them, if you wish," he said, and as I nodded he dropped them into a pocket of his coat.

In silence we filed down the aisle to our seats. The boxes were already filled; the body of the house filled as we watched it. On every side were faces I knew and loved—Mrs. Morris and Grace with Colonel and Mrs. Cartwell and Mr. and Mrs. Nestor Hurd; the Morgans, with Kittie James and Maudie Joyce, who had come from Chicago for this big night in my life; my friend of the rejected dinner and her brilliantly jeweled guests; a deputation from the Searchlight and my magazine offices, which, it seemed to me, filled half the house. 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. Godfrey, 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 Godfrey 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. Godfrey 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 masses 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 pass off soon after we begin. Am I speaking in my usual voice? It sounds like a whisper to me."

I reassured 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 Godfrey 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 Godfrey'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 Godfrey 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 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 response which grew more generous as the moments passed. 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; Godfrey'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 Godfrey'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 Godfrey 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 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 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 Godfrey, 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."

Godfrey shook his head.

"This isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "The gods 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.

"Hello, 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.

I handed the message to Maudie and Kittie, who were with me. They had both been crying; their eyes moistened again.

"Who would have thought all this could happen, when we were school-girls at St. Catharine's!" whispered Maudie. "Do you remember your first play, May—the one we girls put on?" I remembered. I could laugh 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 home in my car and take May for a little spin in the Park in a taxi-cab. I think 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 get away. Then I found myself with Godfrey in a taxi-cab which was making its purring way up Fifth Avenue. It was strangely restful to be alone with him after the strain and excitement of the past three hours. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions, my mind at first a whirling kaleidoscope in which the scenes of the evening repeated themselves over and over. Then, in the darkness and the silence, they began to disappear. Suddenly there seemed nothing in the world but Godfrey and me. He had leaned forward and taken my hand. We had entered the Park and were slipping along an avenue of awake and watchful trees.

"Well, May," he said, gently.

My heart slipped a beat. There was a new quality in the voice which throbbed and shook a little. "I've waited almost five years," he went on. "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 their wonderful shelter I heard his next words.

"Marrying me," he said, "won't mean that you're giving up anything you have. You are only adding me to it. I shall be as much interested in your books and your plays as you are yourself. You know that, don't you?"

But I interrupted him. In that moment books and plays seemed like the snows of yesteryear.

"Godfrey," I said, "do you imagine that I'm thinking of books and plays now? Let's talk about the real things."

The taxi-cab sang on its way. The trees that lined the broad drive of the Park raced beside us, keeping us company. Far above them a tiny new moon smiled down. My professional life, like the lights of the Avenue, lay behind me. Little in it seemed to count in the new world I was entering. Until to-night I had been merely a player waiting in the wings. Now, out in front, I heard the orchestra playing. The curtain of life was going up, and I had my cue in Godfrey's voice.

THE END