XI

"T. B." CONDUCTS A REHEARSAL

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 forward in 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're

_al-most_ friendly. 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'm _so-o_ tired!"

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 of his 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 conduct _our_ last 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's _great_!" 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 her enthusiasm 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 change that 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 else I 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 the _Searchlight_, 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 Berwyck Theater 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

Berwyck several 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."