“I didn't write you about it, old fellow,” he said, as we crossed on the ferry. “My time comes in a month. Everything is in shape for the production—scenery painted and costumes made. I've hung around for three years, but my day has come at last!”
He took my congratulations with the graciousness that was characteristic of him.
“It isn't unmitigated bliss,” he remarked. “I have had to all but ruin the piece to get it on. I guess it will pass muster and that's all I care for now. Three years such as I have spent are warranted to take the pride out of any man's soul.”
Lightly as he spoke, I knew he was staking all his future on the event.
“Drop in for the first night,” he said, as he left me at my lodgings. “I want your opinion. I have great faith in your judgment,” he added politely.
I knew he hadn't, but he was invariably kind, even at the expense of truth.
During the month, the last one of waiting, I saw him frequently. The many interests relating to the presentation went forward with unexpected smoothness, and there was but one drop of bitterness in Gavan's cup. His mother was unwell. He had observed a decided change in the tone of her letters, something that was deeper than mere sorrow at his absence. One of his relatives (for like a true Southerner he had a surpassingly large number of them) had written that it was his duty to come home at his earliest possible convenience.
When Gavan told me this, he said:
“And it's the truth; I have been away a long while. Once the first night's over with, I turn my back on New York. My mother needs me.”
I could see that he was very much exercised about his mother's condition.