Part 12 (2/2)
”That so?” Whitaker returned over his shoulder.
”Yes; it's funny; never knew him to be so late. He always has the aisle seat, fourth row, centre. But he'll be along presently.”
Whitaker noted that the designated stall was vacant, then tried to fix his attention upon the stage; but without much success; after a few moments he became aware that he had missed something important; the scene was meaningless to him, lacking what had gone before.
He glanced idly at his programme, indifferently absorbing the information that ”Jules Max has the honour to present Miss Sara Law in her first and greatest success ent.i.tled JOAN THURSDAY--a play in three acts--”
The audience stirred expectantly; a movement ran through it like the movement of waters, murmurous, upon a sh.o.r.e. Whitaker's gaze was drawn to the stage as if by an implacable force. Max s.h.i.+fted on the chair behind him and said something indistinguishable, in an unnatural tone.
A woman had come upon the stage, suddenly and tempestuously, banging a door behind her. The audience got the barest glimpse of her profile as, pausing momentarily, she eyed the other actors. Then, without speaking, she turned and walked up-stage, her back to the footlights.
Applause broke out like a thunderclap, pealing heavily through the big auditorium, but the actress showed no consciousness of it. She was standing before a cheap mirror, removing her hat, arranging her hair with the typical, unconscious gestures of a weary shop-girl; she was acting--living the scene, with no time to waste in pandering to her popularity by bows and set smiles; she remained before the gla.s.s, prolonging the business, until the applause subsided.
Whitaker received an impression as of a tremendous force at work across the footlights. The woman diffused an effect as of a terrible and boundless energy under positive control. She was not merely an actress, not even merely a great actress; she was the very soul of the drama of to-day.
Beyond this he knew in his heart that she was his wife. Sara Law was the woman he had married in that sleepy Connecticut town, six years before that night. He had not yet seen her face clearly, but he _knew_. To find himself mistaken would have shaken the foundations of his understanding.
Under cover of the applause, he turned to Max.
”Who is that? What is her name?”
”The divine Sara,” Max answered, his eyes s.h.i.+ning.
”I mean, what is her name off the stage, in private life?”
”The same,” Max nodded with conviction; ”Sara Law's the only name she's ever worn in my acquaintance with her.”
At that moment, the applause having subsided to such an extent that it was possible for her to make herself heard, the actress swung round from the mirror and addressed one of the other players. Her voice was clear, strong and vibrant, yet sweet; but Whitaker paid no heed to the lines she spoke. He was staring, fascinated, at her face.
Sight of it set the seal of certainty upon conviction: she was one with Mary Ladislas. He had forgotten her so completely in the lapse of years as to have been unable to recall her features and colouring, yet he had needed only to see to recognize her beyond any possibility of doubt.
Those big, intensely burning eyes, that drawn and pallid face, the quick, nervous movements of her thin white hands, the slenderness of her tall, awkward, immature figure--in every line and contour, in every gesture and inflection, she reproduced the Mary Ladislas whom he had married.
And yet ... Max was whispering over his shoulder:
”Wonderful make-up--what?”
”Make-up!” Whitaker retorted. ”She's not made up--she's herself to the last detail.”
Amus.e.m.e.nt glimmered in the manager's round little eyes: ”You don't know her. Wait till you get a pipe at her off the stage.” Then he checked the reply that was shaping on Whitaker's lips, with a warning lift of his hand and brows: ”Ss.h.!.+ Catch this, now. She's a wonder in this scene.”
The superb actress behind the counterfeit of the hunted and hungry shop-girl was holding spell-bound with her inevitable witchery the most sophisticated audience in the world; like wheat in a windstorm it swayed to the modulations of her marvellous voice as it ran through a pa.s.sage-at-arms with the termagant. Suddenly ceasing to speak, she turned down to a chair near the footlights, followed by a torrent of shrill vituperation under the lash of which she quivered like a whipped thoroughbred.
Abruptly, pausing with her hands on the back of the chair, there came a change. The actress had glanced across the footlights; Whitaker could not but follow the direction of her gaze; the eyes of both focussed for a brief instant on the empty aisle-seat in the fourth row. A shade of additional pallor showed on the woman's face. She looked quickly, questioningly, toward the box of her manager.
Seated as he was so near the stage, Whitaker's face stood out in rugged relief, illumined by the glow reflected from the footlights. It was inevitable that she should see him. Her eyes fastened, dilating, upon his. The scene faltered perceptibly. She stood transfixed....
[Ill.u.s.tration: Her eyes fastened, dilating, upon his. The scene faltered perceptibly]
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