Originally the headquarters of the Azure Society had been a seminary and schoolmistress' house. The thoroughness with which the buildings had been transformed showed that money was not among the things which the society had to search for. It had rich resources, and it had also high social standing; and the deferential commissionaires at the doors and the fluffy-ap.r.o.ned, appealing girls who gave away programmes in the foyer were a proof that the society, while doubtless anxious about such subjects as the persistence of individuality after death, had no desire to reconst.i.tute the community on a democratic basis. It was above such transient trifles of reform, and its high endeavours were confined to questions of immortality, of the infinite, of s.e.x, and of art: which questions it discussed in fine raiment and with all the punctilio of courtly politeness.

Edward Henry was late, in common with some two hundred other people of whom the majority were elegant women wearing Paris or almost Paris gowns with a difference. As on the current of the variegated throng he drifted through corridors into the bijou theatre of the society, he could not help feeling proud of his own presence there; and yet at the same time he was scorning, in his Five Towns way, the preciosity and the simperings of these his fellow creatures. Seated in the auditorium, at the end of a row, he was aware of an even keener satisfaction as people bowed and smiled at him; for the theatre was so tiny and the reunion so choice that it was obviously an honour and a distinction to have been invited to such an exclusive affair. To the evening first fixed for the dramatic _soiree_ of the Azure Society he had received no invitation.

But shortly after the postponement due to Elsie April's indisposition an envelope addressed by Marrier himself, and containing the sacred card, had arrived for him in Bursley. His instinct had been to ignore it, and for two days he had ignored it, and then he noticed in one corner the initials "E.A." Strange that it did not occur to him immediately that E.A. stood, or might stand, for Elsie April!

Reflection brings wisdom and knowledge. In the end he was absolutely convinced that E.A. stood for Elsie April; and at the last moment, deciding that it would be the act of a fool and a coward to decline what was practically a personal request from a young and enchanting woman, he had come to London--short of sleep, it is true, owing to local convivialities, but he had come. And, curiously, he had not communicated with Marrier. Marrier had been extremely taken up with the dramatic _soiree_ of the Azure Society, which Edward Henry justifiably but quite privately resented. Was he not paying three pounds a week to Marrier?

And now, there he sat, known, watched, a notoriety, the card who had raised Pilgrim to the skies, probably the only theatrical proprietor in the crowded and silent audience; and he was expecting anxiously to see Elsie April again--across the footlights! He had not seen her since the night of the stone-laying, over a week earlier. He had not sought to see her. He had listened then to the delicate tones of her weak, whispering, thrilling voice, and had expressed regret for Rose Euclid's plight. But he had done no more. What could he have done? Clearly he could not have offered money to relieve the plight of Rose Euclid, who was the cousin of a girl as wealthy and as sympathetic as Elsie April.

To do so would have been to insult Elsie. Yet he felt guilty none the less. An odd situation! The delicate tones of Elsie's weak, whispering, thrilling voice on the scaffolding haunted his memory, and came back with strange clearness as he sat waiting for the curtain to ascend.

There was an outburst of sedate applause, and a turning of heads to the right. Edward Henry looked in that direction. Rose Euclid herself was bowing from one of the two boxes on the first tier. Instantly she had been recognised and acknowledged, and the clapping had in nowise disturbed her. Evidently she accepted it as a matter of course. How famous, after all, she must be, if such an audience would pay her such a meed! She was pale, and dressed glitteringly in white. She seemed younger, more graceful, much more handsome, more in accordance with her renown. She was at home and at ease up there in the brightness of publicity. The imposing legend of her long career had survived the eclipse in the United States. Who could have guessed that some ten days before she had landed heart-broken and ruined at Tilbury from the _Minnetonka_?

Edward Henry was impressed.

"She's none so dusty!" he said to himself in the incomprehensible slang of the Five Towns. The phrase was a high compliment to Rose Euclid, aged fifty and looking anything you like over thirty. It measured the extent to which he was impressed.

Yes, he felt guilty. He had to drop his eyes, lest hers should catch them. He examined guiltily the programme, which announced "The New Don Juan," a play "in three acts and in verse"--author unnamed. The curtain went up.

II.

And with the rising of the curtain began Edward Henry's torture and bewilderment. The scene disclosed a cloth upon which was painted, to the right, a vast writhing purple cuttlefish whose finer tentacles were lost above the proscenium-arch, and to the left an enormous crimson oblong patch with a hole in it. He referred to the programme, which said: "Act. I. A castle in the forest," and also "Scenery and costumes designed by Saracen Givington, A.R.A." The cuttlefish, then, was the purple forest, or perhaps one tree in the forest, and the oblong patch was the crimson castle. The stage remained empty, and Edward Henry had time to perceive that the footlights were unlit, and that rays came only from the flies and from the wings.

He glanced round. n.o.body had blenched. Quite confused, he referred again to the programme and deciphered in the increasing gloom, "Lighting by Cosmo Clark," in very large letters.

Two yellow-clad figures of no particular s.e.x glided into view, and at the first words which they uttered Edward Henry's heart seemed in apprehension to cease to beat. A fear seized him. A few more words, and the fear became a positive a.s.surance and realisation of evil. "The New Don Juan" was simply a pseudonym for Carlo Trent's "Orient Pearl"!

... He had always known that it would be. Ever since deciding to accept the invitation he had lived under just that menace. "The Orient Pearl"

seemed to be pursuing him like a sinister destiny.

Weakly he consulted yet again the programme. Only one character bore a name familiar to the Don Juan story; to wit, "Haidee"; and opposite that name was the name of Elsie April. He waited for her,--he had no other interest in the evening,--and he waited in resignation. A young female troubadour (styled in the programme "the messenger") emerged from the unseen depths of the forest in the wings and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed to the hero and his friend: "The woman appears." But it was not Elsie that appeared.

Six times that troubadour messenger emerged and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "The woman appears," and each time Edward Henry was disappointed. But at the seventh heralding--the heralding of the seventh and highest heroine of this drama in hexameters--Elsie did at length appear.

And Edward Henry became happy. He understood little more of the play than at the historic breakfast-party of Sir John Pilgrim; he was well confirmed in his belief that the play was exactly as preposterous as a play in verse must necessarily be; his manly contempt for verse was more firmly established than ever--but Elsie April made an exquisite figure between the castle and the forest; her voice did really set up physical vibrations in his spine. He was deliciously convinced that if she remained on the stage from everlasting to everlasting, just so long could he gaze thereat without surfeit and without other desire. The mischief was that she did not remain on the stage. With despair he saw her depart; and the close of the act was ashes in his mouth.

The applause was tremendous. It was not as tremendous as that which had greeted the plate-smashing comedy at the Hanbridge Empire, but it was far more than sufficiently enthusiastic to startle and shock Edward Henry. In fact, his cold indifference was so conspicuous amid that fever, that in order to save his face he had to clap and to smile.

And the dreadful thought crossed his mind, traversing it like the shudder of a distant earthquake that presages complete destruction:

"Are the ideas of the Five Towns all wrong? Am I a provincial after all?"

For hitherto, though he had often admitted to himself that he was a provincial, he had never done so with sincerity; but always in a manner of playful and rather condescending badinage.

III.

"Did you ever see such scenery and costumes?" some one addressed him suddenly when the applause had died down. It was Mr. Alloyd, who had advanced up the aisle from the back row of the stalls.

"No, I never did!" Edward Henry agreed.

"It's wonderful how Givington has managed to get away from the childish realism of the modern theatre," said Mr. Alloyd, "without being ridiculous."

"You think so!" said Edward Henry judicially. "The question is, Has he?"

"Do you mean it's too realistic for you?" cried Mr. Alloyd. "Well, you _are_ advanced! I didn't know you were as anti-representational as all that!"

"Neither did I!" said Edward Henry. "What do you think of the play?"

"Well," answered Mr. Alloyd low and cautiously, with a somewhat shamed grin, "between you and me, I think the play's bosh."

"Come, come!" Edward Henry murmured as if in protest.

The word "bosh" was almost the first word of the discussion which he had comprehended, and the honest familiar sound of it did him good.

Nevertheless, keeping his presence of mind, he had forborne to welcome it openly. He wondered what on earth "anti-representational" could mean. Similar conversations were proceeding around him, and each could be very closely heard, for the reason that, the audience being frankly intellectual and anxious to exchange ideas, the management had wisely avoided the expense and noise of an orchestra. The entr'acte was like a _conversazione_ of all the cultures.

"I wish you'd give us some scenery and costumes like this in _your_ theatre," said Alloyd as he strolled away.

The remark stabbed him like a needle; the pain was gone in an instant, but it left a vague fear behind it, as of the menace of a mortal injury.

It is a fact that Edward Henry blushed and grew gloomy, and he scarcely knew why. He looked about him timidly, half defiantly. A magnificently arrayed woman in the row in front, somewhat to the right, leaned back and towards him, and behind her fan said:

"You're the only manager here, Mr. Machin! How alive and alert you are!"

Her voice seemed to be charged with a hidden meaning.

"D'you think so?" said Edward Henry. He had no idea who she might be.

He had probably shaken hands with her at his stone-laying, but if so he had forgotten her face. He was fast becoming one of the oligarchical few who are recognised by far more people than they recognise.

"A beautiful play!" said the woman. "Not merely poetic, but intellectual. And an extraordinarily acute criticism of modern conditions!"

He nodded. "What do you think of the scenery?" he asked.

"Well, of course candidly," said the woman, "I think it's silly. I dare say I'm old-fashioned."

"I dare say," murmured Edward Henry.

"They told me you were very ironic," said she, flushing but meek.

"They!" Who? Who in the world of London had been labelling him as ironic? He was rather proud.

"I hope if you _do_ do this kind of play,--and we're all looking to you, Mr. Machin," said the lady making a new start,--"I hope you won't go in for these costumes and scenery. That would never do!"

Again the stab of the needle!

"It wouldn't," he said.

"I'm delighted you think so," said she.

An orange telegram came travelling from hand to hand along that row of stalls, and ultimately, after skipping a few persons, reached the magnificently arrayed woman, who read it and then pa.s.sed it to Edward Henry.