Construing his few words as a tribute to his illustrious manager, they called for Kane—called and waited. He did not come.
From the wings members of the cast scurried in search of him. It was not like Oswald Kane on a first night to be far from the footlights at the curtain of the big act. He was always close at hand, after eight or ten calls, for a gracious speech of thanks.
But to-night he could not be found. They sent a callboy to his studio. He was not there. He had evidently left the theater. Discouraged by Moore’s early failure, he had apparently given up all possible hope of the ultimate overwhelming triumph that was his.
The curtain descended finally after announcement had been made that the manager could not be located.
[244]
] Keyed to his topmost effort, Moore changed for the last act. He had come through! He had scored—nothing could alter that. And she had made him do it. It was her success! His Elaine’s! He had not failed her. Two masters! She had said he must serve only one. Had he? And if so was it not she, his beloved, whom he had served?
He was on the stage, with that swift glance toward her place, that prayer to a filmy figure of his imagination. And yet not quite. More than his imagination—his spirit! They two were one, would be one for all time. He knew that now.
With the same fire of inspiration he went through the final scenes. For her he played his part—to her he spoke his lines. “You’ve come back to me!” he cried as the door opened and the wife of the play entered. “You’ve come back. I haven’t lost you, dear.” And a vast throng of seasoned New Yorkers responded, unashamed of their emotion.
The play was done. As the last clatter of hot hands died away Frank Moore covered with quick, precipitate steps the short space to his dressing-room. His eyes were still lifted and alight. He caught hold of the door knob and as he did so, another hand covered his.
“Frank—”
Oswald Kane was standing beside him.