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.