Laughing Bill Hyde and Other Stories

by Rex Beach

  THE REAL AND THE MAKE-BELIEVE

  On his way down-town Phillips stopped at a Subway news-stand andbought all the morning papers. He acknowledged that he was vastlyexcited. As he turned in at the stage door he thrilled at sight ofthe big electric sign over the theater, pallid now in the morningsunshine, but symbolizing in frosted letters the thing for which hehad toiled and fought, had hoped and despaired these many years. Thereit hung, a dream come true, and it read, "A Woman's Thrall, By HenryPhillips."

  The stage-door man greeted him with a toothless smile and handed him abundle of telegrams, mumbling: "I knew it would go over, Mr. Phillips.The notices are swell, ain't they?"

  "They seem to be."

  "I ain't seen their equal since 'The Music Master' opened. We'll run ayear."

  This differed from the feverish, half-hysterical praise of theevening before. Phillips had made allowances then for the spell of afirst-night enthusiasm and had prepared himself for a rude awakeningthis morning--he had seen too many plays fail, to put much faithin the fulsomeness of first-nighters--but the words of the doormancarried conviction. He had felt confident up to the last moment, to besure, for he knew he had put his life's best work into this drama, andhe believed he had written with a master's cunning; nevertheless, whenhis message had gone forth a sudden panic had seized him. He had begunto fear that his judgment was distorted by his nearness to the play,or that his absorption in it had blinded him to its defects. It wasevident now, however, that these fears had been ill-founded, for noplay could receive such laudatory reviews as these and fail to setNew-Yorkers aflame.

  Certain printed sentences kept dancing through his memory: "Unknowndramatist of tremendous power," "A love story so pitiless, so true,that it electrifies," "The deep cry of a suffering heart," "NormaBerwynd enters the galaxy of stars."

  That last sentence was the most significant, the most wonderful ofall. Norma Berwynd a star! Phillips could scarcely credit it; hewondered if she had the faintest notion of how or why her triumph hadbeen effected.

  The property man met him, and he too was smiling.

  "I just came from the office," he began. "Say! they're raving. It'sthe biggest hit in ten years."

  "Oh, come now! It's too early for the afternoon papers--"

  "The papers be blowed! It's the public that makes a play; the wholetown knows about this one already. It's in and over, I tell you;we'll sell out tonight. Believe me, this is a knock-out--a regularbull's-eye. It won't take no government bonds to bridge us over thenext two weeks."

  "Did you get the new props?"

  "Sure! The electrician is working on the drop light for the first act;we'll have a better glass crash tonight, and I've got a brand-newdagger. That other knife was all right, but Mr. Francis forgot how tohandle it."

  "Nevertheless, it's dangerous. We came near having a real tragedy lastevening. Don't let's take any more chances."

  "It wasn't my fault, on the level," the property man insisted."Francis always 'goes up' at an opening."

  "Thank Heaven the papers didn't notice it."

  "Huh! We could _afford_ to kill an actor for notices like them. Itwould make great advertising and please the critics. Say! I knew thisshow was a hit."

  Under the dim-lit vault of the stage Phillips found the third-actscenery set for the rehearsal he had called, then, having given hisinstructions to the wardrobe woman, he drew a chair up before a bunchlight and prepared to read for a second time the morning reviews.

  He had attempted to read them at breakfast, but his wife--Theplaywright sighed heavily at the memory of that scene. Leontine hadbeen very unjust, as usual. Her temper had run away with her again andhad forced him to leave the house with his splendid triumph spoiled,his first taste of victory like ashes in his mouth. He was, in a way,accustomed to these endless, senseless rows, but their increasingfrequency was becoming more and more trying, and he was beginning todoubt his ability to stand them much longer. It seemed particularlynasty of Leontine to seize upon this occasion to vent her open dislikeof him--their relations were already sufficiently strained. Marriage,all at once, assumed a very lopsided aspect to the playwright; he hadgiven so much and received so little.

  With an effort he dismissed the subject from his mind and set himselfto the more pleasant task of looking at his play through the eyes ofthe reviewers.

  They had been very fair, he decided at last. Their only criticismwas one which he had known to be inevitable, therefore he felt noresentment.

  "Norma Berwynd was superb," he read; "she combined with rare beautya personality at once bewitching and natural. She gave life to herlines; she was deep, intense, true; she rose to her emotional heightsin a burst of power which electrified the audience. We cannot butwonder why such an artist has remained so long undiscovered."

  The dramatist smiled; surely that was sufficient praise to compensatehim for the miserable experience he had just undergone. He readfurther:

  "Alas, that the same kind things cannot be said of Irving Francis,whose name is blazoned forth in letters of fire above the theater. Hehas established himself as one of America's brightest stars; but therole of John Danton does not enhance his reputation. In his lighterscenes he was delightful, but his emotional moments did not ring true.In the white-hot climax of the third act, for instance, which is thebig scene of the play, he was stiff, unnatural, unconvincing. Eitherhe saw Miss Berwynd taking the honors of stardom away from him andgenerously submerged his own talent in order to enhance her triumph,or it is but another proof of the statement that husband and wife donot make convincing lovers in the realm of the make-believe. It wassurely due to no lack of opportunity on his part--"

  So the writer thought Irving Francis had voluntarily allowed his wifeto rival him. Phillips smiled at this. Some actors might be capableof such generosity, but hardly Irving Francis. He recalled the man'sinsistent demands during rehearsals that the 'script be changed tobuild up his own part and undermine that of his wife; the many heatedarguments which had even threatened to prevent the final performanceof the piece. Irving's egotism had blinded him to the true resultof these quarrels, for although he had been given more lines, morescenes, Phillips had seen to it that Norma was the one to reallyprofit by the changes. Author and star had been upon the vergeof rupture more than once during that heartbreaking period ofpreparation, but Phillips was supremely glad now that he had heldhimself in control. Leontine's constant nagging had borne fruit, afterall, in that it had at least taught him to bite down on his words, andto smile at provocation.

  Yes! Norma Berwynd was a star in spite of herself, in spite of herhusband. She was no longer merely the wife of Irving Francis, thepopular idol. Phillips was glad that she did not know how long it hadtaken him to effect her independence, nor the price he had paid forit, since, under the circumstances, the truth could help neither ofthem.

  He was aroused from his abstraction by the rustle of a woman'sgarments, and leaped to his feet with a glad light in his eyes, onlyto find Leontine, his wife, confronting him.

  "Oh!" he said; then with an effort, "What is the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "I didn't know you were coming down-town."

  "Whom were you expecting?" Leontine mocked, with that slight accentwhich betrayed her Gallic origin.

  "No one."

  She regarded him with fixed hostility. "I came down to see yourrehearsal. You don't object, I hope?"

  "Why should I object?" Phillips turned away with a shrug. "I'msurprised, that's all--after what you said this morning. Isn't yourinterest in the play a trifle--tardy?"

  "No! I've been greatly interested in it all the time. I read itseveral times in manuscript."

  "Indeed! I didn't know that. It won't be much of a rehearsal thismorning; I'm merely going to run over the third act with Mr. and Mrs.Francis."

  "You can rehearse her forty years and she'll never play the part."

  "The critics don't agree with you; they rave over her. If Francishimself--"

  Mrs. Phillips utt
ered an exclamation of anger. "Oh, of course, _she_is perfect! You wouldn't give me the part, would you? No. You gave itto her. But it's mine by rights; I have the personality."

  "I wrote it for her," said the husband, after a pause. "I can't seeyou in it."

  "Naturally," she sneered. "Well, _I_ can, and it's not too late tomake the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece."

  "Leontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about?The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a bighit. I'd be crazy to make a change."

  "You won't give me the part?"

  "Certainly not. You shouldn't ask it."

  "Doesn't Leontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?"she demanded.

  "Until last night, yes. To-day--well, no. She has created this role.Besides--you--couldn't play the part."

  "And why not, if you please?"

  "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Leontine."

  "Go on!" she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion.

  "In the first place you're not--young enough." The woman quivered. "Inthe second place, you've grown heavy. Then, too, your accent--"

  She broke out at him furiously. "So! I'm old and fat and foreign. I'velost my beauty. You think so, eh? Well, other men don't. I'll show youwhat men think of me--"

  "This is no time for threats," he interrupted, coldly.

  "Bah! I don't threaten." Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about,for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of herwomanhood. "Listen! You can't fool me. I know why you wrote this play.I know why you took that girl and made a star of her. I've known thetruth all along."

  "You have no cause to--"

  "Don't lie!" she stormed at him. "I can read you like a book. But Iwon't stand for it." She flung his arm violently from her and turnedaway.

  "I think you'd better go home," he told her. "You'll have the stagehands talking in a minute."

  She laughed disagreeably, ignoring his words. "I watched you writethis play! I have eyes, even if Irving Francis is blind. It's time heknew what is going on."

  "There is nothing going on," Phillips cried, heatedly; but his wifemerely shrugged her splendid shoulders and, opening her gold vanitycase, gave her face a deft going over with a tiny powder puff. Aftera time the man continued: "I could understand your attitude ifyou--cared for me, but some years ago you took pains to undeceive meon that point."

  Leontine's lip curled, and she made no answer.

  "This play is a fine piece of property; it will bring us a great dealof money; it is the thing for which I have worked years."

  "I am going to tell Francis the truth about you and his wife!" shesaid.

  "But there's nothing to tell," the man insisted, with an effort torestrain himself. "Besides, you must know the result if you start athing like that. He'll walk out and take his wife with him. That wouldruin--"

  "Give me her part."

  "I won't be coerced," he flared up, angrily. "You are willing toruin me, out of pique, I suppose, but I won't permit it. This is thebiggest thing I ever did, or ever will do, perhaps; it means honor andrecognition, and--you're selfish enough to spoil it all. I've neverspoken to Norma Berwynd in any way to which her husband or you couldobject. Therefore I resent your attitude."

  "My attitude! I'm your wife."

  He took a turn across the stage, followed by her eyes. Pausing beforeher at length, he said, quietly: "I've asked you to go home and nowI insist upon it. If you are here when I return I shall dismiss therehearsal. I refuse to allow our domestic relations to interfere withmy business." He strode out to the front of the house and then pacedthe dark foyer, striving to master his emotions. A moment later hesaw his wife leave the stage and assumed that she had obeyed hisadmonitions and gone home.

  The property-man appeared with an armful of draperies and mechanicalappliances, interrupting his whistling long enough to call out.

  "Here's the new hangings, Mr. Phillips, and the Oriental rugs. I'vegot the dagger, too." He held a gleaming object on high. "Believe me,it's some Davy Crockett. There's a newspaper guy out back and he wantsyour ideas on the American drama. I told him they were great. Will yousee him?"

  "Not now. Tell him to come back later."

  "Say! That John Danton is some character. Why don't you let him havethe gal?"

  "Because--well, because it doesn't happen in real life, and I've triedto make this play real, more than anything else."

  When Norma Berwynd and her husband arrived Phillips had completelyregained his composure, and he greeted them cordially. The womanseemed awed, half-frightened, by her sudden rise to fame. She seemedto be walking in a dream, and a great wonder dwelt in her eyes. As forFrancis, he returned the author's greeting curtly, making it plainthat he was in no agreeable temper.

  "I congratulate you, Phillips," he said. "You and Norma have becomefamous overnight."

  The open resentment in his tone angered the playwright and caused himto wonder if their long-deferred clash was destined to occur thismorning. He knew himself to be overwrought, and he imagined Francis tobe in no better frame of mind; nevertheless, he answered, pacifically:

  "If that is so we owe it to your art."

  "Not at all. I see now what I failed to detect in reading andrehearsing the piece, and what you neglected to tell me, namely, thatthis is a woman's play. There's nothing in it for me. There's nothingin my part."

  "Oh, come now! The part is tremendous; you merely haven't got the mostout of it as yet."

  Francis drew himself up and eyed the speaker coldly. "You're quotingthe newspapers. Pray be more original. You know, of course, how Istand with these penny-a-liners; they never have liked me, but as forthe part--" He shrugged. "I can't get any more out of it than there isin it."

  "Doubtless that was my fault at rehearsals. I've called this one so wecan fix up the weak spot in the third act."

  "Well! We're on time. Where are the others?" Francis cast an inquiringglance about.

  "I'll only rehearse you and Mrs. Francis."

  "Indeed!" The former speaker opened his mouth for a cutting rejoinder,but changed his mind and stalked away into the shadowy depths of thewings.

  "Please make allowances for him," Norma begged, approaching Phillipsin order that her words might not be overheard. "I've never seen himso broken up over anything. He is always unstrung after an opening,but he is--terrible, this morning."

  There was trouble, timidity, and another indefinable expression in thewoman's eyes as they followed the vanishing figure of her husband;faint lines appeared at the corners of her mouth, lines which hadno place in the face of a happily married woman. She was trembling,moreover, as if she had but recently played some big, emotional role,and Phillips felt the old aching pity for her tugging at his heart. Hewondered if those stories about Francis could be true.

  "It has been a great strain on all of us," he told her. "But you? Howdo you feel after all this?" He indicated the pile of morning papers,and at sight of them her eyes suddenly filled with that same wonderand gladness he had noticed when she first arrived.

  "Oh-h! I--I'm breathless. Something clutches me--here." She laidher hand upon her bosom. "It's so new I can't express it yet,except--well, all of my dreams came true in a night. Some fairy wavedher wand and, lo! poor ugly little me--" She laughed, although it wasmore like a sob. "I had no idea my part was so immense. Had you?"

  "I had. I wrote it that way. My dreams, also, came true."

  "But why?" A faint flush stole into her cheeks. "There are so manywomen who could have played the part better than I. You had courage torisk your piece in my hands, Mr. Phillips."

  "Perhaps I knew you better than you knew yourself." She searched hisface with startled curiosity. "Or better at least than the world knewyou. Tell me, there is something wrong? I'm afraid he--resents your--"

  "Oh no, no!" she denied, hastily, letting her eyes fall, but notbefore he had seen them fill again with that same expression of painand bewilderment. "He's--n
ot himself, that's all. I--You--won'tirritate him? Please! He has such a temper."

  Francis came out of the shadows scowling. "Well, let's get at it,"said he.

  Phillips agreed. "If you don't mind we'll start with your entrance. Iwish you would try to express more depth of feeling, more tenderness,if you please, Mr. Francis. Remember, John Danton has fought this loveof his for many years, undertaking to remain loyal to his wife. Hedoesn't dream that Diane returns his love, for he has never spoken,never even hinted of his feelings until this instant. Now, however,they are forced into expression. He begins reluctantly, frightened atthe thing which makes him speak, then when she responds the dam breaksand his love over-rides his will power, his loyalty, his lifelongprinciples; it sweeps him onward and it takes her with him. The truthappals them both. They recognize its certain consequences and yet theyrespond freely, fiercely. You can't overplay the scene, Mr. Francis."

  "Certainly I can overplay it," the star declared. "That's the danger.My effects should come from repression."

  "I must differ with you. Repressive methods are out of place here. Yousee, John Danton loses control of himself--"

  "Nonsense!" Francis declared, angrily.

  "The effectiveness of the scene depends altogether upon its--well, itssavagery. It must sweep the audience off its feet in order that theclimax shall appear logical."

  "Nonsense again! I'm not an old-school actor, and I can't chewscenery. I've gained my reputation by repressive acting, byintensity."

  "This is not acting; this is real life."

  Francis's voice rose a tone in pitch, and his eyes flashed at thisstubborn resistance to his own set ideas.

  "Great heavens, Phillips! Don't try to tell me my own business.People don't behave that way in real life; they don't explode underpassion--not even jealousy or revenge; they are reserved. Reserve!That's the real thing; the other is all make-believe."

  Seeing that it was useless to argue with the man, Phillips saidnothing more, so Francis and his wife assumed their positions andbegan their lines.

  It was a long scene and one demanding great force to sustain. It wasthis, in fact, which had led to the choice of Irving Francis for theprincipal role, for he was a man of tremendous physical power. He hadgreat ability, moreover, and yet never, even at rehearsals, had hebeen able to invest this particular scene with conviction. Phillipshad rehearsed him in it time and again, but he seemed strangelyincapable of rising to the necessary heights. He was hollow,artificial; his tricks and mannerisms showed through like familiartrade marks. Strangely enough, the girl also had failed to get themost out of the scene, and this morning, both star and leading womanseemed particularly cold and unresponsive. They lacked the spark, theuplifting intensity, which was essential, therefore, in desperation,Phillips finally tried the expedient of altering their "business," ofchanging positions, postures, and crosses; but they went through thescene for a second time as mechanically as before.

  Knowing every line as he did, feeling every heart throb, living andsuffering as John Danton was supposed to be living and suffering,Phillips was nearly distracted. To him this was a wanton butchery ofhis finest work. He interrupted, at last, in a heart-sick, hopelesstone which sorely offended the already irritated Francis.

  "I'm--afraid it's no use. You don't seem to get it."

  "What is it I don't get?" roughly demanded the actor.

  "You're not genuine--either of you. You don't seem to feel it."

  "Humph! We're married!" said the star, so brutally that his wifeflushed painfully. "I tell you I get all it's possible to get out ofthe scene. You wrote it and you see a lot of imaginary values; butthey're not there. I'm no superman--no god! I can't give you more thanthe part contains."

  "Look at it in this light," Phillips argued, after a pause. "Diane isa married woman; she, too, is fighting a battle; she is restrained byevery convention, every sense of right, every instinct of wifehood andwomanhood. Now, then, you must sweep all that aside; your own firemust set her ablaze despite--"

  "I? _I_ must do all this?" mocked the other, furiously. "Why must _I_do it all? Make Norma play up to me. She underplays me all the time;she's not in my key. That's what's the matter--and I'm damned tired ofthis everlasting criticism."

  There was a strained silence, during which the two men faced eachother threateningly, and a panic seized the woman.

  She managed to say, uncertainly: "Perhaps I--should play up to you,Irving."

  "On the contrary, I don't think the fault is yours," Phillips said,stiffly.

  Again there was a dramatic silence, in which there was no element ofthe make-believe. It was the clash of two strong men who disliked eachother intensely and whose masks were slipping. Neither they nor theleading woman detected a figure stealing out from the gloom, as ifdrawn by the magnetism of their anger.

  "My fault, as usual," Francis sneered. "Understand this, Phillips, myreputation means something to me, and I won't be forced out of a goodengagement by a--well, by you or by any other stage manager."

  Phillips saw that same fearful look leap into the woman's eyes, and itchecked his heated retort. "I don't mean to find fault with you," hedeclared, evenly. "I have the greatest respect for your ability as anactor, but--"

  The star tossed his massive head in a peculiarly aggravating manner."Perhaps you think you can play the part better than I?"

  "Irving! _Please_!" breathed his wife.

  "Show me how it should be done, if you feel it so strongly."

  "Thank you, I will," Phillips answered, impulsively. "I'm not anactor, but I wrote this piece. What's more, I lived it before I wroteit. It's my own story, and I think I know how it should be played."

  Francis smiled mockingly. "Good!" said he; "I shall learn something."

  "Do you mind?" The author turned to the real Diane, and she shook herhead, saying, uncertainly:

  "It's--very good of you."

  "Very well. If you will hold the manuscript, Mr. Francis, I'll try toshow what I feel the scene lacks. However, I don't think I'll need anyprompting. Now, then, we'll begin at John Danton's entrance."

  With the mocking smile still upon his lips, Francis took themanuscript and seated himself upon the prompter's table.

  It was by no means remarkable that Henry Phillips should knowsomething about acting, for he had long been a stage manager, and inemergencies he has assumed a good many divergent roles. He felt noself-consciousness, therefore, as he exchanged places with Francis;only an intense desire to prove his contentions. He nerved himself toan unusual effort, but before he had played more than a few moments heforgot the hostile husband and began to live the part of John Dantonas he had lived it in the writing, as he invariably lived it everytime he read the play or saw it acted.

  Nor, as he had said, did he need prompting, for the lines were not thewritten speeches of another which had been impressed upon his brainby the mechanical process of repetition; they were his own thoughtsexpressed in the simplest terms he knew, and they came forth unbidden,hot, eager. Once he began to voice them he was seized by that samemighty current which had drawn them from him in the first place andleft them strewn upon paper like driftwood after a flood. He hadacted every part of his play; he had spoken every line many times insolitude; but this was the first time he had faced the real Diane. Hefound himself mastered by a fierce exultation; he forgot that hewas acting or that the woman opposite him was playing a role of hiscreation; he began to live his true life for the first time since hehad met the wife of Irving Francis. Clothed in the make-believe, thereal Henry Phillips spoke freely, feelingly. His very voice changed intimbre, in quality; it became rich, alive; his eyes caressed the womanand stirred her to a new response.

  As for Irving Francis, he watched the transformation withastonishment. Grudgingly, resentfully, he acknowledged that this wasindeed fine acting. He realized, too, that his blind egotism hadserved merely to prove the truth of the author's criticism andto emphasize his own shortcomings. The idea enraged him, but thespectacle held him enth
ralled.

  Norma Berwynd was not slow to appreciate the truth. Accustomedthoroughly to every phase of the make-believe world in which shedwelt, she recognized unerringly in the new John Danton's words andactions something entirely unreal and apart from the theatrical. Theconviction that Henry Phillips was not acting came to her with ablinding suddenness, and it threw her into momentary confusion, henceher responses were mechanical. But soon, without effort on her part,this embarrassment fell away and she in turn began to blaze. The flamegrew as Phillips breathed upon it. She realized wildly that her hearthad always hungered for words like these, and that, coming from hislips, they carried an altogether new and wondrous meaning; that theyfilled some long-felt, aching want of which she had been ignorantuntil this moment. The certainty that it was Phillips himself whospoke, and not a mere character of his creation, filled her with anexultant recklessness. She forgot her surroundings, her husband'spresence, even the fact that the lines she spoke were not of her ownmaking.

  Never had the scene been played like this. It grew vital, it took ona tremendous significance. No one could have observed it and remainedunresponsive. Francis let fall the manuscript and stared at the actorswonderingly. Since he was an actor, nothing was so real to him,nothing so thrilling, as the make-believe. He realized that this wasindeed a magnificent exhibition of the artificial. With parted lipsand pulse athrob he followed the wooing of that imaginary John Danton,in whom he could see no one but himself.

  After a time he became conscious of a presence at his side, and heardsome one breathing heavily. Turning with a start, he found LeontinePhillips at his shoulder. She, too, was aroused, but in her sneeringvisage was that which brought the actor abruptly out of his spell. Shehad emerged from the shadows noiselessly, and was leaning forward, herstrong hands gripping the edge of the table littered with its manyproperties.

  Mrs. Phillips had played emotional scenes herself, but never with suchmelodramatic intensity as she now unconsciously displayed. Her wholebody shook as with an ague, her dark face was alive with a jealous furywhich told Irving Francis the story he had been too dull to suspect. Thetruth, when it came home, smote him like a blow; his hatred for theauthor, which had been momentarily forgotten--momentarily lost in hisadmiration of the artist--rose up anew, and he recognized this occultspell which had held him breathless as the thrall of a vital reality,not, after all, the result of inspired acting. Instantly he saw past themake-believe, into the real, and what he saw caused him to utter asmothered cry.

  Leontine turned her face to him. "You fool!" she whispered throughlivid lips.

  Francis was a huge, leonine man; he rose now to his full height, as acat rises. But the drama drew his gaze in spite of himself; he couldnot keep his eyes from his wife's face. Leontine plucked at his sleeveand whispered again:

  "You _fool_!"

  Something contorted the actor's frame bitterly, and he gasped like aman throttled. Leontine could feel his muscles stiffen.

  But the two players were in Elysium. They had reached the climax ofthe scene; Danton had told his love as only a great, starved love cantell itself, and with swimming eyes and fluttering lids, with heartpounding beneath her folded hands, Diane swayed toward him and hisarms enfolded her. Her body met his, yielded; her face was upturned;her fragrant, half-opened lips were crushed to his in a fierce,impassioned kiss of genuine ecstasy.

  Up to this moment the intensity of Francis's rage had held himparalyzed, despite the voice which was whispering so constantly at hisear; but now, when he saw his wife swooning upon the breast of the manwho had played his part, he awoke.

  "She knows he loves her," Leontine was saying. "You let him tell herin front of your face. He has taken her away from you!"

  Mrs. Phillips's eyes fell upon the working fingers of the man as theyrested beside her own. They were opening and closing hungrily. Shealso saw the naked knife which lay upon the table, and she moved itforward cautiously until the eager fingers twined about it. Then shebreathed, "Go!" and shoved him forward fiercely.

  It was Irving Francis's cry of rage as he rushed upon them whicharoused Norma Berwynd from her dream, from her intoxication. She sawhim towering at Phillips's back, and with a scream she tried to savethe latter.

  The husband's blow fell, however; it was delivered with all the savagefury that lay in Irving Francis's body, and his victim was fairlydriven to his knees beneath it. The latter rose, then staggered, and,half sliding through the woman's sheltering embrace, crumpled limplyinto a massive upholstered chair. He, too, was dazed by the suddentransition from his real world to his make-believe.

  When his eyes cleared he saw Norma Berwynd struggling with herhusband, interposing her own slender body in his path. Francis wascursing her foully for her unfaithfulness; his voice was thick andbrutal.

  "Yes! It's true!" she cried, with hysterical defiance. "I never knewtill now; but it's true! It's _true_!"

  "You've killed him!" Leontine chattered, shrilly, and emerged from theshadows, her dark features ashen, her eyes ringed with white. Mrs.Francis turned from her husband and flung her arms about the recumbentman, calling wildly to him.

  The denouement had come with such swiftness that it left all four ofthem appalled at their actions. Seeing what his brief insanity had ledhim into, Francis felt his strength evaporate; his face went white,his legs buckled beneath him. He scanned the place wildly in search ofmeans of escape.

  "My God! My God!" Leontine was repeating. "Why doesn't somebody come?"

  Now that his brain had cleared, and he knew what hand had smitten him,and why, Phillips was by far the calmest of the four. He saw the knifeat his feet and smiled, for no steel could rob him of that gladnesswhich was pulsing through his veins. He was still smiling when hestooped and picked up the weapon. He arose, lifting Norma to her feet;then his hand slid down and sought hers.

  "You needn't worry," he said to Francis. "You see--this is the newdagger I got for the end of the act."

  He held it out in his open palm for all of them to see, and they notedthat it was strangely shortened--that the point of the sliding bladewas barely exposed beneath the hilt.

  Francis wiped his wet face, then shuddered and cursed weakly withrelief, meanwhile groping at the prompter's table for support. "Sold!A prop knife!" he cried.

  "You--you're not really--" Norma swayed forward with eyes closed.

  Leontine laughed.

  "By God! I meant it," the star exclaimed, uncertainly. "You can'tdeny--" He gasped and tugged at his collar.

  "I believe there is nothing to deny," the author said, quietly. Helooked first at his wife, then at his enemy, and then down at thequivering, white face upturned to his. "There is nothing to deny, isthere?" he inquired of Norma.

  "Nothing!" she said. "I--I'm glad to know the truth, that's all."

  Francis glared first at one, then at the other, and as he did so hebegan to realize the full cost of his action. When it came home tohim in terms of dollars and cents, he showed his true character bystammering:

  "I--I made a frightful mistake. I'm--not myself; really, I'm not. Itwas your wife's fault." In a panic he ran on, unmindful of Leontine'sscorn. "She did it, Mr. Phillips. She gave me the knife. She whisperedthings--she made me--I--I'm very sorry--Mr. Phillips, and I'll playthe part the way you want it. I will, indeed."

  Leontine met her husband's look defiantly; hence it was as much to heras to the cringing actor that the playwright said:

  "Your salary will go on as usual, under your contract, Mr.Francis--that is, until the management supplies you with a new play;but I'm the real John Danton, and I shall play him tonight andhenceforth."

  "Then, I'm--discharged? Norma--d'you hear that? We're canceled.Fired!"

  "No, Miss Berwynd's name will go up in lights as the star, if shecares to stay," said Phillips. "Do you wish to remain?" He looked downat the woman, and she nodded.

  "Yes, oh yes!" she said. "I _must_ stay. I daren't go back." Thathunted look leaped into her eyes again, and Phillips recognized it nowas f
ear, the abject physical terror of the weaker animal. "I want togo--forward--not backward, if there is any way."

  "I'll show you the way," he told her, gently. "We'll find ittogether."

  He smiled reassuringly, and with a little gasping sigh she placed herhand in his.