I
During a rehearsal of a new play in which he was engaged Wynne noticed Eve Dalry. She was walking-on in the crowd, and did not seem of a piece with the other girls. When her scene was over she slipped away to a quiet corner and produced a book. Finding the required page, she shook her head as though to banish other considerations, seated herself on an upturned box, and began to read with great absorption.
Partly from curiosity to see the title of the book Wynne moved toward her. Carlyle’s “Heroes and Hero Worship.” A queer choice for a girl to make, he thought, and wondered how much she understood. For awhile he stood behind her glancing at a paragraph here and there, and watching the careful way she turned over a page, then turned it back again to reread and reconsider some passage not wholly understood. He was unused to women who read so seriously, and, despite the semi-cynical smile at the corners of his mouth, her studiousness impressed him.
Presently, impelled by a new and curious familiarity, he drew a long, tapered forefinger over the straight, thin parting in her hair. She looked up slowly, as though his action had been scarcely enough to distract her attention.
“I like the shape of your head,” he found himself saying in reply to the query in her eyes, “it is the kind of vessel which is never empty. The square of your chin, too, is so very right. One seldom sees the two together.”
She met the critical survey with equal candour.
“I have been liking your head,” she said, “but not the chin. Its—”
She drew a slanting line in the air.
“I know,” he nodded; “but it’s not significant.”
“I meant that—insignificant.”
Wynne was not at his best when humour turned against him. His smile and his frown struck a balance.
“I could quote the names of a dozen brilliant men who did not carry their strength or wit in the lower half of their faces, and illustrate my instances at the National Portrait Gallery.”
“Are you brilliant?” There was no barb to the question.
“It pleases me to think so.”
“One wonders, then, why you are doing this little jobbery in a theatre.”
“Yes, that’s reasonable enough. I wonder, too, sometimes. I suppose I was hungry when I took the engagement.”
“This is not your real work, then?”
“I hardly know what my real work is, but it is not in the market. In theory real work never should be in the market.”
“ ‘And no one shall work for money
And no one shall work for fame,’ ”
quoted Eve.
“Spare me from Kipling. It is so disheartening to find one’s views supported by quotations.”
“I’m not so advanced as that. I’m rather proud of quotations—I look on them as medals for reading.”
He made an intolerant gesture.
“But no sane persons show their medals.”
“While I’m young I had rather not be altogether sane.”
“Good! I take back sanity. It’s the worst asset an artist can possess.”
She looked at him with a faint, intricate smile.
“You are easy to catch out,” she said.
“Possibly. I don’t aspire to be a cricketer. Indeed, cricket stands for all I dislike most. Cricket is an Englishman’s notion of the proper conduct of life—a game with rules. If he resists seducing a friend’s wife it is because to do so is not cricket.”
“Do you favour his doing so?”
“Not I—but it depends on the mood and the man, and the attraction. I simply do not admit the existence of cricket in these matters.”
“Do you know,” said Eve, “you seem to me to be expressing ideas and not thoughts. Tell me, what is your real work?”
“I assume that one day I shall know, but I don’t know yet. If I were to say painting—writing—talking—acting—I should be equally right. I have searched the dictionaries in vain to find a word to describe myself. The verb ‘to lead’ is the nearest approach. I think, by nature, I am the centre of a circle—a circle that is even widening. Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?—to lead from the centre of a circle.”
The conviction and frankness with which he discussed himself was remarkable, and, strangely enough, not offensive. He possessed a quality of magnetism which robbed his words of half their arrogance. Eve allowed her eyes to travel over him with calm interest. His clothes were careless and shabby, his collar too big, and his cuffs frayed; his tie seemed anywhere but in the right place. At the first glance she saw he was ill-nourished, and felt an immediate impulse to feed him up with possets and strong beef tea. Frailty excites kindly resolves from the generous-hearted. She found his features attractive, despite their irregularity, and his eyes appealed to her enormously. They were such plucky eyes, eyes that would look the world in the face unfalteringly and support with impertinent courage the wildest views which the mobile, cynical, and weak mouth might choose to utter.
When anything pleased her, Eve laughed—not so much a laugh of amusement as a purr of satisfaction. The unusual appealed to her, and beyond all doubt Wynne Rendall was unusual. Hers were plucky eyes too. They rested frankly, and seemed to read the meanings of what they reflected. Eve had a broad forehead, straight brows, and clean-cut, clearly defined features. Her mouth was sweet and tolerant; to borrow from a painter’s terminology, it was a beautifully drawn mouth. One felt she would be very sure in all her dealings—analytic and purposeful. Hers was not a present-day face, but belonged rather to the period of the old Florentine Masters.
For quite a while these two young people surveyed each other with calm appreciation, and presently Wynne broke the silence.
“You are a new type to me,” he said—“a perplexing type. I’ve seen you on canvas, but never in the flesh. Something of Leonardo’s Lucretia! We might see more of each other, I think.”
“Yes,” she said.
He was about to speak again when the leading man came through a door in the canvas scene and moved toward them. In an instant Wynne pulled down the corners of his mouth pathetically.
“Oh dear! I must go.”
“Why? Your scene is a long way ahead.”
“I know, but here’s K. G. If I stayed he might think I wanted to talk to him—and I don’t.”
Eve understood the feeling very well. Those whose future is all to make are wary and resentful of patronage, and often needlessly shun the society of others more successful than themselves. None is more jealous of his pride than the climber.
She allowed Wynne to depart unhindered, and presently the eminent K. G. came near enough to condescend a “Good morning.”
“Been talking to young Rendall?” he queried.
She nodded.
“A queer boy—quite a clever actor—quite! A good sense of character!”
“Very.”
“Know him well?”
“About five minutes.”
“Oh, yes—yes. Sadly opinionated! Notice it?”
“He has opinions, certainly.”
“H’m! Never get on—people with too many views. He won’t learn—clever enough in himself, but won’t learn from others.”
“I rather thought he had learnt a good deal from others.”
“Oh no—most inaccessible.”
“Does that mean he wouldn’t learn from you?” she inquired, very frankly.
K. G. looked down in mild surprise. Young ladies who are “walking-on” should agree with and not interrogate those lofty beings whose salaries are paid by cheque. But this young lady ignored the principle, and seemed to expect an answer.
“Yes,” he replied, very frankly. “Of course it’s his own affair if he cares to ignore the advice of—well—” Modesty forbade the mention of his own name, and he finished the sentence by a gesture.
“Of course it is,” said Eve.
K. G. frowned. The conversation was not proceeding on orthodox lines.
“Still, as I say, young men of that sort do not get on.”
“I can’t see why. Perhaps he thought you could teach him nothing.”
It was the protective mother instinct compelled the words. The remark annoyed K. G. excessively. It was not, however, his habit to vent irritation upon a woman, even though she might be its original cause, consequently he attacked Wynne Rendall.
“He is a fellow who wants a good kicking, and has never had it.”
“A man always wants to kick what he cannot understand,” said Eve.
To defend some one who is absent from the attacks of a third person is a sure basis upon which friendships are established. When Eve returned to her little bed-sitting-room after the rehearsal, Wynne Rendall occupied a large share of her thoughts.
“I like him,” she said to herself. “He’s all wrong in all sorts of ways, but there’s something tremendous about him in spite of that—and I like him.”
She fell to wondering how he had arrived at what he was, what queer turns of circumstance or inclination had aged the youth from him. With quickening sympathy she recalled his sunken cheeks, the nervous sensitive movements of his hands and head.
“Looks as if he never had enough to eat. I’m sure he doesn’t eat enough.”
Then she laughed, for in her own existence eating did not enter very largely. A salary of one pound one shilling per week does not admit of extravagant menus. A woman can keep the roses of her cheeks flowering upon very little. With a man it is different. A man, to be a man, must set his teeth in solid victuals, or nature denied will deny.
She thought over her exchange with the leading man, and was glad she had stood up for Wynne. It offended her that a fat, luxurious fellow should say what he chose, and imagine himself immune from counter-attack on account of his position in the company. She would not have been at ease with her conscience if she had acted otherwise. In the circumstances Eve did not prosper well with her reading that night. “Heroes and Hero Worship” was cast aside to make room for other considerations.
At the rehearsal next day it was with almost a proprietary interest she responded to Wynne’s flickering greeting.
“You are making a reputation,” he said, and added, “by the easiest way.”
“What way is that?”
“Being frank with your superiors.”
“Is it easy?”
“Assuredly—if you have the courage. Most people are content to accept their superiors as being superior. Invert the principle—tell an accepted success you consider him an ass—and you create an immediate interest in yourself.”
“It wasn’t my reason,” said Eve.
“Wasn’t it?” He seemed quite surprised.
“No. He annoyed me, and I showed him I was annoyed.”
“You were sincere, then?”
“Of course.”
“How queer of you.”
“Why queer?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It seems so odd to be sincere with a man like that. Are you often sincere?”
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“Inside I am. Been at the stage long?”
“This is the beginning.”
“The egg stage?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, where do you live?”
“A room—anywhere.”
“You’ve no people, then?”
“None to whom I matter—or who matter to me.”
“I know. D’you know I was afraid you might have been rich and comfortable.”
Eve fingered a piece of her dress and held it out.
“Eight-three a yard, and made at home.”
“There are rich women who disguise themselves.”
“I am not one. I have king’s treasures, that is all.”
“A row of books over your bed, h’m.”
“That was clever,” she smiled.
“I could guess the authors.”
“Try.”
“Meredith—Browning—Hardy—Wendell Holmes.”
“Pretty good—especially Meredith.”
“You mustn’t overdo Meredith—he is a cult, not an author. You’re intricate—with the ‘Diana’ courage, and that’s dangerous. If you care to borrow I have some books. Come and choose a few.”
“May I? I should like that.”
“Come tonight?”
“It’s the first night of the play.”
“I’d forgotten. Well”—with a sudden impulse—“why not after it is over?”
“If you like.”
He rubbed his chin with his long, sensitive fingers, and nodded approvingly.
“You’d make a friend,” he said.
He could say things very attractively when he chose. The remark was a compliment to Eve and her sex.