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Eve sat by herself in the second row of the stalls. Her eyes were glorious with hope. On her lap lay the program of the piece, with Wynne’s name ringing from the page.
The printing was a stupendous piece of self-sufficiency. She had noted, half-fearful, half-amused, the hum of conversation which had gone round the theatre as the audience noted the persistent large-type booming of a single unknown personality.
“This young man is taking responsibilities upon his shoulders,” observed one newspaper critic to another.
The other smiled sardonically. Already he was tasting in anticipation several phrases he proposed to level against Mr. Wynne Rendall.
“But who is he anyway?” seemed to arise from the general buzz of voices.
From where she sat Eve could see the profile of Lane Quiltan. His box seemed very full—a circumstance which made her glad, for Wynne had refused to offer her a seat there. “He won’t want to be bothered with introductions on a first night; besides, there are lots of people who must be invited. I want you to be in the body of the house and feel the pulse of the audience.”
So it came about she was alone with none to talk with, and none to admire the pretty frock she wore.
It had not occurred to Wynne she would want a dress for his first night—she had not expected that it would; but, nevertheless, she was beautifully clad.
The possession of the evening dress and a wrap marked her first deliberate step toward rebellion. She had ordered it from a first-class West End dress-maker.
“Send the bill to Mr. Wynne Rendall at the Vandyke Theatre,” she had said.
Never before had Eve possessed so sweet a frock, and the touch of it sent a pleasurable thrill through her body. When she had finished dressing, every vestige of the drab, houseworking little figure had been transformed into a simple expression of fragile and delicious womanhood. Very gloriously she had felt this to be so as she stood before the mirror waiting for Wynne to return and take her to the theatre.
But he did not return. A messenger boy came instead, with a scribbled note asking for his “dress things, as I shan’t have time to get back before the play begins.”
Thus Eve was denied even a moment to wish him well, and took her stall unnoticed and alone.
As she looked at Lane Quiltan’s profile she wondered how he felt at being forced to take a second place to Wynne in every point of prominence. For some reason she conceived that he would not be troubled over-much. There was a repose and stability in his looks which suggested a mental balance not easily disturbed by small-weight issues.
At long range she liked and felt the wish to know him better.
“Steadfast, substantial,” she reasoned; “very unlike Wynne. He is hoping for the success of the play, not of himself. He won’t mind sacrificing himself to get it.”
It came to her that both she and Quiltan were contributing their share toward the making of Wynne Rendall, and both she and Quiltan were being left a little behind in the doing of it.
The curtain rose, and half an hour later Eve knew that Wynne had made good all he boasted he would do—and more. The spirit of the play shone through the lines with a truth of definition that was truly remarkable. The values of the human emotions portrayed were perfect. It was an example of the purest artistry and the surest perception. Not an idea was blurred—not an inflection out of place. Through an infinity of natural detail, rendered with mirrored exactitude, ran the soul and intention of the play, like the dominant theme of a great orchestral fugue. Even the veriest tyro in matters dramatic realized that no mere assembly of actors and actresses, however brilliant, could have achieved so faultless an effect without a master hand to guide them. What Wynne had learnt in the Paris ateliers years before he had set upon the stage. The words of the old Maitre had soaked in: “To we artists the human figure exists in masses of light and shade. It is not made up of legs and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No, by the good God, no!” Wynne had remembered, and here was the distillation of the words. Here was his canvas with its faithful chiaroscuro of life.
But of all the people in the house that night only Eve knew the palette whereon the colours had been mixed. One by one she recognized and silently named them, and sometimes she glowed with pride, for many owed their brilliance and their being to herself.
“Well done, Wynne! Oh, well done!” she breathed, as the curtain fell.
“We are seeing things tonight,” said an important critic as he and a contemporary passed toward the foyer.
Eve rose and followed them, and during the interval she moved from group to group and listened to what the audience had to say.
There was no doubt Wynne Rendall had come into his own, for although every one praised the play it was his name which came first.
“I shall let him off a scathing over the press campaign,” said a representative of one of London’s dailies. “It’s the best production I’ve seen in years.”
Eve noticed and recognized from Wynne’s descriptions, some of the tail-lights to the arts. They were busy adding his name to their lists. They were boasting of alleged friendship with him. One of the more venturesome spoke of him familiarly as “old W. R.”
A man who leaps from obscurity to initials in a single night is getting a move on.
At the final curtain there was an ovation. The author and Wynne responded to “author’s call” together, then, as the applause continued, Wynne came down to the footlights alone. He seemed very collected, and twisted an unlighted cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. For the first time Eve thought he looked young—young and care-free, as though he had stepped into the element he had searched for for so many years. In this new element he moved with an ease and assurance that surprised her. She had thought he would show feverishness or excitement, but there was no trace of either in his bearing.
“Speech! speech!” shouted the gallery.
He looked up at them with a winning smile, and replied, “Of course.” There was a fresh burst of applause and a wave of laughter, and when it died away he began to speak in the manner of a man chatting with friends about a fireside:
“It’s a charming play, isn’t it? Very charming. Tomorrow my learned critics will be saying so. They will say, perhaps, ‘The play’s the thing’; but I trust they won’t forget that the manner of its interpretation is possibly an even greater thing.” He stopped, smiled and said, half under his breath, “Render unto Cæsar—Good-night, everybody.”
Eve waited in the foyer, her cheeks aglow with excitement. Presently she saw Wynne come through an iron door into the press of congratulation. Half the important stage people in London were thronging round him. His composure was remarkable. Under the influence of success he seemed to have grown up and moved as a man among men. A pretty, rather elaborate girl pressed forward to greet him with adulation, and Eve noted how he touched her cheek with a kind of possessive patronage, and turned aside to speak to some one else. The action was very unlike her preconception of his character. Presently he noticed her, and nodded a smile across the crowded room.
“Like it?” his lips framed.
And her eyes flashed back the answer.
Seemingly this satisfied him, for he moved away. A little later on he noticed her again.
“Don’t wait for me,” he said. “I’m sure to be late.”
Eve walked out of the theatre alone.
“Get me a cab,” she said to the commissionaire.
“I’m sorry, madam, but there are very few tonight.”
“That one,” she pointed to a taxi standing by the curb.
“That is being kept for Mr. Rendall, madam.”
“Oh, is it?” said Eve, and walked toward the Tube.