Rose smiled. "I never watch one of my plays on the first night," he said. "It would be torture to the nerves. I am going to forget all about the play and go to a concert at the Queen"s Hall. I shall come back before the curtain is rung down--in case the audience want to throw things at me! Au revoir, until supper--you"ve given me a great deal to think about."
With a wave of his hand, Rose hurried away, and the duke was once more alone.
The theatre was filling up rapidly as the duke moved a little to the front of the box and peeped round the curtains.
Party after party of well-dressed people were pouring into the stalls.
Diamonds shimmered upon necks and arms which were like columns of ivory, there was a sudden infusion of colour, pinks and blues, greens and greys, wonderfully accentuated and set off by the sombre black and white of the men"s clothes.
A subtle perfume began to fill the air, the blending of many essences ravished from the flowers of the Cote d"Azur. The lights in the roof suddenly jumped up, and the electric candelabra round the circle became brilliant. There was a hum of talk, a cadence of cultured and modulated voices. The whole theatre had become alive, vivid, full of colour and movement.
And, in some electric fashion, the duke was aware that every one was expecting--even as he was expecting--the coming of great things. There was a subtle sense of stifled excitement--apprehension was it?--that was perfectly patent and real.
Everybody felt that something was going to happen. It was not an ordinary first night. Even the critics, who sat more or less together, were talking eagerly among themselves and had lost their somewhat exaggerated air of nonchalance and boredom.
The duke saw many people that he knew. Every one who was not upon the Riviera was there. Great ladies nodded and whispered, celebrated men whispered and nodded. A curious blend of amus.e.m.e.nt and anxiety was the keynote of the expression upon many faces.
To-night, indeed, was a night of nights!
The duke had not written to Lady Constance Camborne to say that he was going to be present at the first night of _The Socialist_. She had made some joking reference to the coming production in one of her letters but he had not replied to it. He had kept all his new mental development from her--locked up in his heart. From the very first he had never known real intimacy with her.
As Society took its seats he was certain that every one was talking about him. Sooner or later some one or other would see him, and there would be a sensation. He was sure of it. It would create a sensation.
For many reasons the duke was glad that neither Lord Hayle, the bishop, nor Constance were in the theatre. Gerald, of course, was in hospital at Oxford, the earl and Constance were down at Carlton.
Even as the thought came to his mind, and he watched the stalls cautiously from the back of the darkened box, he started and became rigid. Something seemed to rattle in his head, there was a sensation as if cold water had been poured down his spine.
The Earl of Camborne and his daughter had entered the opposite box upon the grand circle tier.
The duke shrank back into the box, asking himself with fierce insistence why he felt thus--guilty, found out, ashamed?
At that moment the overture ended and the curtain rose upon the play.
Then the duke knew.
CHAPTER XXI
IN THE STAGE BOX AT THE PARK LANE THEATRE
The curtain rose upon a drawing-room scene, perfectly conceived and carried out, an illusion of solid reality, immense and satisfying to eye and intelligence alike.
Here was a silver table, covered with those charming toys, modern and antique, which fashionable women collect and display.
There was a revolving book-shelf of ebony and lapis lazuli which held--so those members of the audience who were near could see--the actual novels and volumes of _belles lettres_ of the moment; the things they had in their own drawing-rooms.
The whole scheme was wonderfully done. It was a room such as Waring and Liberty, a.s.sisted by the individual taste of its owner, carry out.
Up to a certain height the walls--and how real and solid they appeared!--were of pale grey, then came a black picture rail, and above it a frieze of deep orange colour. Black, orange, and grey, these were the colour notes of all the scene, and upon the expanses of grey were rows of old j.a.panese prints, or, rather, the skilful imitation of them, framed in gold.
The carpet was of orange, carrying a serpentine design of dead black, two heavy curtains of black velvet hung on either side of a door leading into a conservatory, softly lit by electric lights concealed amid the ma.s.sed blossoms, for it was a night scene that opened the play.
There was a low murmur of applause and pleasure from the crowded theatre, for here was a picture as complete and beautiful as any hardened playgoers had seen for many years. Then the sound died away.
The new actress was upon the stage, the unknown Mary Marriott; there was a great hush of curiosity and interest.
As the curtain rose the girl had been sitting upon a Chesterfield sofa of blue linen at the "O. P." side of the stage. For a moment or two she had remained quite motionless, a part of the picture, and, with a handkerchief held to her face, her shoulders shaking convulsively.
She was dressed in an evening gown of flame-colour and black.
In front of her, and in the centre of the stage, two odd and incongruous figures were standing.
One was a shabby, middle-aged woman, pale, shrinking, and a little furtive among all the splendours in which she found herself. She wore a rusty bonnet and a black cape scantily trimmed with jet.
By the woman"s side stood a tall girl in a hat and a cheap, fawn-coloured jacket. The girl held a soiled boa of white imitation fur in one restless hand. She was beautiful, but sullen and hard of face.
Not a word was spoken.
It might have been a minute and a half before a word was said. The only sound was that of the sobbing from the richly-dressed woman upon the couch and the timid, shuffling feet of the two humble people--mother and daughter evidently--who stood before her.
Yet, curiously enough--and, indeed, it was unprecedented--not a sigh nor sound of impatience escaped the audience. One and all were as still as death. Some extraordinary influence was already flowing over the footlights to capture their imaginations and their nerves.
As yet they hadn"t seen the face of the new actress, of whom they had heard so much in general talk and read so much in the newspapers.
A minute and a half had gone by and not a word had been spoken.
They all sat silent and motionless.
Suddenly Mary jumped up from the sofa and threw her handkerchief away.
They saw her for the first time; her marvellous beauty sent a flutter through the boxes and the stalls, her voice struck upon their ears almost like a blow.
Never was a play started thus before. Mary--upon the programme she was Lady Augusta Decies, a young widow--leapt up and faced the two motionless figures before her. Tears were splashing down her cheeks, her lovely mouth quivered with pain, her arms were outstretched, and her perfect hands were spread in sympathy and entreaty.
"Oh, but it shan"t be, Mrs. Dobson! It can"t be! I will stop it! I will alter it for you and Helen and all of you!"
These were the first words of the play. They poured out with a music that was terribly compelling.
There was a cry of agony, a hymn of sympathy, and a stern resolve. An audible sigh and shudder went round the theatre as that perfect voice swept round it.
"What was this play to be? Who was this girl? What did it all mean?"
Some such thought was in the mind of every one.
Such a voice had not been heard in a London theatre for long. Sarah Bernhardt had a voice like that, Duse had a voice like that--a voice like liquid silver, a voice like a fairy waterfall falling into a lake of dreamland. Most of the people there had heard the loveliest speaking voices of the modern world. But this was as lovely and compelling as any of them, and yet it had something more. It had one supreme quality--the quality of absolute conviction.
The new player--this unknown Mary Marriott--was hardly acting. It was a real cry of anguish straight from the heart itself.