Part 33 (1/2)

”John,” said the Earl of Camborne and Bishop of Carlton, ”I have known that you were here for the last hour. Constance has gone back to Grosvenor Street, but I want to speak to you very seriously indeed.”

The duke looked up quickly, his voice was decisive.

”I didn't know that either you or Connie were in London,” he said. ”I understood from Gerald that you were both down at the palace. I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid we shall have to postpone our talk until to-morrow morning. I'll turn up at Grosvenor Street at whatever time you wish.

To-night, however, now, as a matter of fact, I am very particularly engaged indeed.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE SUPPER ON THE STAGE

The success of the play was beyond all question. It was stupendous, overwhelming and complete.

For ten minutes the house shouted itself hoa.r.s.e and Mary Marriott was recalled over and over again. Great baskets of flowers had made their appearance as she stood bowing for the tenth time, and were handed up to her till she stood surrounded by a ma.s.s of blossom.

Hundreds of opera gla.s.ses were levelled at her, eager, critical and admiring faces watched this lovely and graceful girl who stood before them, quietly and modestly, and with a great joy s.h.i.+ning in her eyes.

For she had stirred them, stirred them by the depths of her art and the pa.s.sion of her playing. They knew that in one night a great artist had suddenly appeared. However much they might disagree and dislike the doctrines preached in _The Socialist_ they knew that the play was a work of genius, and had been interpreted with supreme talent. Aubrey Flood they were fond of. He was a popular favourite, he had acquitted himself well upon this eventful night. He had received his meed of praise.

But for Mary Marriott there was a reception so whole-hearted and magnificent that the tears might well come into the young girl's eyes and the slim, flower-laden hands tremble with emotion as she bowed her grat.i.tude.

James Fabian Rose had to make a little speech.

He did it with extraordinary a.s.surance and aplomb, and he was received with shouts of applause and good-natured laughter. He had amused and pleased society, and that was enough. The few mocking and brilliant epigrams he flung at them were taken in good part. The deep undercurrent of seriousness seemed but to harmonise with the electric, emotional influences of the moment.

For a minute or two--until they should be seated at supper in the smart restaurants, clubs, and houses--they were all Socialists!

And the fact that their convictions of the truth would vanish with the first plover's egg and gla.s.s at Pol Roger, by no means affected their b.u.t.terfly enthusiasm as the famous author talked to and at them.

The Duke of Paddington watched it all with a strange sense of exhilaration and joy. Lord Camborne had given him an appointment in Grosvenor Street for the morrow, and had hurried away in the most marked perplexity and annoyance.

Lord Hayle had been writing to his father, the duke saw that at once, but he was not perturbed. He had made his resolve. He was master of his own fate, captain of his own soul--what did anything else matter? What was to be done was to be done, come what might. One must be true to oneself!

As the weary, excited audience began at last to press out of the stalls and boxes, there was a tap upon the door of the duke's, and Mr.

Goodrick, the editor of the _Daily Wire_, entered. The little man's face was flushed with excitement, and he was smiling with pleasure.

Yet even under these conditions of animation he still seemed a quiet, insignificant little person, and did not in any way suggest the keen, sword-like intellect, the controller of a vast ma.s.s of public opinion that he was.

”Rose has sent me to say that supper will be ready in ten minutes,” he began, ”and Mary Marriott especially charged me to tell you how grateful she is that you have come here to-night. What a success! There has never been anything like it! All London will go mad about the thing to-morrow!

I had three members of the staff here to-night--Masterman, who does the dramatic criticism, purely from the standpoint of dramatic art, don't you know; William Conrad, the parson's younger brother, who is one of our political people; and old Miss Saurin, who does the society and dress. They're all three gone down to the office in cabs in a state of lambent enthusiasm and excitement. We shall have a fine paper to-morrow morning!”

”I'm sure you will, Mr. Goodrick,” the duke answered. ”Perhaps finer than you know.”

The little man laughed as he lit a cigarette and offered the case to his companion. ”Yes,” he said, ”but this time it won't be a 'scoop' as it was when I first had the pleasure of meeting you. Good heavens! what a boom that was for the _Wire_. I shall never forget it as long as I live!

We were absolutely the only paper in the kingdom to publish the full details of your disappearance and recovery. You don't know how much we owe you, your Grace, from the journalistic point of view. Such things don't come twice, more's the pity!”

”I'm not so sure of that, Mr. Goodrick,” the duke replied slowly.

”Perhaps to-night, within an hour or so, I am going to provide you with a 'scoop' as you call it, to which the first was a mere nothing!”