The Education of Eric Lane Part 23

"Hullo? Good-morning, Eric. Many happy returns of the day!"

"But it isn't my birthday."

"It's our new play, stupid. Are you feeling very nervous?"

"Not in the least. If it's going to be a success, it'll _be_ a success; if it's going to be a failure, my feeling nervous won't help things."

"M'yes. I like you better when you're less philosophical and more human.

I suppose you're simply flooded with telegrams and letters of good wishes. Darling, I'm so excited! If it doesn't go well--of course, it isn't a _good_ play; I've never said that, have I?"

"I sometimes wonder whether you'll ever say that of any play I write,"

he laughed.

"Oh, you _will_ do good work some day. But I thought, after knowing me all these weeks--well, if it doesn't make the most tremendous. .h.i.t, I shall walk quietly out of the theatre and throw myself into the river."

"I certainly shan't jump in after you."

"Not even for the advertis.e.m.e.nt? Would you miss me, Eric?"

"I'm almost sure to at first," he answered with a laugh. "Babs, I've got to get up now----"

"Don't you dare to ring me off, Eric! I want to know about to-night."

"Scott's at seven."

"And what dress would you like me to wear?"

He pondered over the familiar ritual.

"The one I always call the 'fairy queen,' I think."

"Well, say 'please.'"

"'Please.' I must get up now, or I shall be late at the office.

Good-bye, Babs darling."

"Good-bye, sweetheart."

They dined with unnecessary haste. For all his philosophy, Eric's nervousness shewed itself in over-frequent consultation of his watch, and they entered their box before the stalls were half-full. Barbara sat forward, bowing to friends in the familiar, first-night gathering; but he preferred to stand at her side, hidden by a curtain, while she called back the names of the new arrivals. This was a greater ordeal than the evening when his first play was produced, for he was known now, and the critics would judge him by the success and standard of the earlier play; instead of a handful of old colleagues, he was now on nodding terms with a third of the audience; it was a personal trial, and he did not want to fail under their eyes; most of all he did not want to fail before Barbara.

As the curtain went up, he sat down beside her and, after a quick glance at the stage, began to inspect the house. Her hand slipped into his, and he heard a whispered "Cheer up! It's going to be a tremendous success. I will it to be!" Then his attention went back to the house. Why the devil couldn't people take the trouble to arrive in time? Pus.h.i.+ng their way in late, blocking the view. . . . Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley, of all people. He knew her well enough to speak plainly about it. . . . The house was very quiet, very cold; expectant, perhaps, but they ought to be warming now. . . . A slip--and another! It was curious that a woman like Mabel Elstree could go on rehearsing and being pulled up over the same thing again and again without ever learning--a moderately intelligent woman too--working at her own job. . . . The last week had been thrown away. . . .

But in all the rehearsals he had never noticed how this opening dragged.

Manders had never criticized it (one of the few things he _hadn't_ tried to cut about); and it was dragging. In a moment people would be yawning and talking to one another; the pit would become noisy with its feet; already there was a rustle; if they would only look at the stage instead of trying to learn their programmes by heart! They should have done that before! And still the house was cold. . . . G.o.d in heaven! small blame to it!

Eric sat back with tightly shut mouth, then grew suddenly rigid. There was a single quick laugh, the herald for gusty laughter rising simultaneously from a dozen different parts; instead of stopping, it swelled and engulfed the house. Ah, thank G.o.d! that sea of vacant, stiff faces had broken! The house was alive and warm. The players, pausing of necessity, breathed thanksgiving before returning to dialogue which had become suddenly imbued with new strength and finish.

Eric felt Barbara's lips at his ear.

"Didn't I say I'd will it for you?" she whispered.

"It might go quite well," he answered, unsuccessfully nonchalant. "Every one's in a good temper now."

"And you can let go my hand for a minute!" She winced and put one knuckle into her mouth. "I stood it as long as I could, but you've been _driving_ my rings into my unhappy finger--All right, darling! kiss the place to make it well. I could _see_ you weren't enjoying yourself, but you wanted me to feel it, too. So sweet of you!"

In the first interval they stayed in the box and allowed themselves to be seen; during the whole of the second an army of their friends laid siege to the door with greetings to Barbara and congratulations to Eric.

He would have liked to smoke a cigarette outside with some of his old colleagues; he would have liked still better to think it all over in peace. This was going to be a greater success than the first play! And Barbara, with tears in her eyes, was saying "Come and congratulate us!"

Eric had little idea who flooded the box during that tempestuous ten minutes. Lady Maitland was there with an air of having written the play or at least of having discovered the author. And Gerald Deganway, who never missed a first night, simpering falsetto congratulations. And Colonel Waring and Agnes: he remembered them, because he was so much surprised to see them . . . and he had wanted to introduce Agnes to Babs, and there had been no opportunity. . . . And Colonel Grayle and Sonia O'Rane, who invited them to come back for supper. . . . There was violent reaction after his early nervousness, and he found himself within an inch of giggling. When the lights were lowered and he had hurried the last visitors from the box, he sat down and buried his face in his hands. How long it was he never knew, before Barbara leaned over him, pulling gently at his arm.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"Come outside," she whispered.

They walked to a flight of four steps leading through a fire-proof door to the wings.

"Where are you going to?" he asked.

"Sit down; it's quiet here. Now listen carefully: there's only about another twenty minutes, and then they'll want a speech from you. Now, I won't say a word! Just think out a few sentences; don't try to be original or clever; just thank them--the usual thing--as conventional as you can make it." Her solicitous voice trembled and broke. "My own darling, I am so happy to see you happy! I'm so proud of you! _Our_ play! Oh, Eric, thank G.o.d for you and all your sweetness to me!"

He looked up with startled eyes, suddenly tired.

"You're an angel, Babs! But you always give me a guilty conscience, when you're like this. I think of the things I might have done and haven't; and I think of the things I have said and done, which I might have spared you."

"Well, go on giving me your love! Why _you_ should talk as if you owed _me_ anything . . ."

A moment later he was alone, with the memory of her lips still trembling on his. He lighted a cigarette and paced up and down the pa.s.sage, thinking out his speech. She had left the box-door open, and, as the curtain fell, he took up his position where he could see the house applauding. Loud and continuous, gloriously continuous, came the clapping. The curtain was drawn aside, and the players came forward, one by one. A crescendo of cheers greeted Manders, dying down until he could utter his smiling six sentences of acknowledgement. Then there was a pause. The lights were still lowered. Simultaneously in rasping barks came the call of "Author! Author!"

Barbara turned her head and blew him a kiss with the finger-tips of both hands.

"I suppose I'd better put in an appearance," he drawled, stamping on his cigarette-end. "Don't be offended if I don't look at you, Babs; you'd make me forget all I was going to say."

"_Affection is the most insidious form of self-indulgence._"--From the Diary of Eric Lane.

CHAPTER FIVE

MORTMAIN

"Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and pa.s.sion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain-- I only feel--Farewell!--Farewell!"

LORD BYRON: "FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER."