THE KALEIDOSCOPE REVOLVES
Tony slept late next morning and when
she did open her eyes they fell upon a huge florist
box by the door and a special delivery letter on top
of it. The maid had set the two in an hour ago
and tiptoed away lest she waken the weary little sleeper.
Tony got up and opened the box.
Roses dozens of them, worth the price of
a month’s wages to many a worker in the city!
Frail, exquisite, shell-pink beauties, with gold at
their hearts! Tony adored roses but she almost
hated these because it seemed to her Alan was bribing
her forgiveness by playing upon her worship of their
beauty and fragrance.
Still kneeling by the flowers she
glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty! Dick was
already miles away on his hateful journey, had gone
sad and hopeless because she loved Alan Massey.
Why did it have to be so? Why was love so perverse
and unreasonable a thing? Alan was not worthy
to touch Dick’s hand, though in his arrogance
he affected to despise the other. But it was
Alan she loved, not Dick. There must be something
wrong with her, dreadfully wrong that it should be
so. After last night there could be no doubt
of that.
She sat down on the floor, opened
Alan’s letter, despised herself for letting
its author’s spell creep over her anew with every
word. It was an abject plea for mercy, for forgiveness,
for restoration to favor. It had been a devil
of jealousy that had possessed him, he had not known
what he was doing. Surely she must know that
he would not willingly harm or hurt or anger her in
any way. He loved her too much. Carson had
behaved like a man. Alan would apologize to him
if the other man would accept the apology. It
was Tony really who had driven him mad by being so
much kinder to the other than to himself. She
must realize what he was, not drive him too far.
“I am sending you roses,”
he ended. “Please don’t throw them
away as you did the others. Keep them and let
them plead for me. And don’t ah Tony, don’t
ever, ever say again what you said last night, that
you never wanted to see me again! You don’t
mean it, I know. But don’t say it.
It kills me to hear you. If you throw me over
I’ll blow my brains out as sure as I am a living
man this moment. But you won’t, you cannot,
Tony dearest. You will forgive me, stand by me,
rotten as I am. You are mine. You love me.
You won’t push me down to Hell.”
It was a cowardly letter Tony thought,
a letter calculated to frighten her, bring her to
subjection again as well as to gratify the writer’s
own Byronic instinct for pose. He had behaved
badly. He acknowledged it but claimed forgiveness
on the grounds of love, his love for her which had
been goaded to mad jealousy by her thoughtless unkindness,
her love for him which would not desert him no matter
what he did.
But pose or not, Tony was obliged
to admit there was some truth in it all. Perhaps
it was all true-too true. Even if he did not resort
to the pistol as he threatened he would find other
means of slaying his soul if not his body if she forsook
him now. She could not do it. As he said
she loved him too well. She had gone too far
in the path to turn back now.
Ah why, why had she let it go so far?
Why had she not listened to Dick, to Uncle Phil, to
Carlotta, even to Miss Lottie? They had all told
her there was no happiness for her in loving Alan
Massey. She knew it herself better than any of
them could possibly know it. And yet she had to
go on, for his sake, for her own because she loved
him.
By this time she was no longer angry
or resentful. She was just sorry sorry
for Alan sorry for herself. She knew
just as she had known all along that last night’s
incident would not really make any difference.
It would be put away in time with all the other things
she had to forgive. She had eaten her pomegranate
seeds. She could not escape the dark kingdom.
She did not wish to.
Later came violets from Dick which
she put in a vase on her desk beside Uncle Phil’s
picture. But it was the fragrance and color of
Alan’s roses that filled the room, and presently
she sat down and wrote her ill-behaved lover a sweet,
forgiving little note. She was sorry if she had
been unkind. She had not meant to be. As
for what happened it was too late to worry about it
now. They had best forget it, if they could.
He couldn’t very well apologize to Dick in person
because he was already on his way to Mexico.
There was no need of any penance. Of course she
forgave him, knew he had not meant to hurt her, though
he had horribly. If he cared to do so he might
take her to dinner tomorrow night somewhere
where they could dance. And in conclusion she
was always his, Tony Holiday.
Both Dick and Alan were driven out
of her mind later that day by the delightful and exciting
interview over the tea table with Carol Clay.
Miss Clay was a charming hostess, drew the girl out
without appearing to do so, got her to talk naturally
about many things, her life with her father at army
barracks, and with her uncle on her beloved Hill, of
her friends and brothers, her college life, of books
and plays. Plays took them to the Killarney Rose
and once more Miss Clay expressed her pleasure in
the girl’s rendering of one of her own favorite
roles.
“You acted as if you had been
playing Rose all your life,” she added with
a smile.
“Maybe I have,” said Tony.
“Rose is a good deal like me.
Maybe that is why I loved playing her so.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.
You are a real little actress, my dear. I wonder
if you are ready to pay the price of it. It is
bitterly hard work and it means giving up half the
things women care for.”
The speaker’s lovely eyes shadowed
a little. Tony wondered what Carol Clay had given
up, was giving up for her art to bring that look into
them.
“I am not afraid. I am
willing to work. I love it. And I I
am willing to give up a good deal.”
“Lovers?” smiled Miss Clay.
“Must I? I thought actresses
always had lovers, at least worshipers. Can’t
I keep the lovers, Miss Clay?” There was a flash
of mischief in Tony’s eyes as she asked the
important question.
“Better stick to worshipers.
Lovers are risky. Husbands fatal.”
Tony laughed outright at that.
“I am willing to postpone the fatality,”
she murmured.
“I am glad to hear it for I
lured you here to take you into a deep-laid plot.
I suppose you did not suspect that it was Max Hempel
who sent me to see you play Rose?”
“Mr. Hempel? I thought he had forgotten
me.”
“He never forgets any one in
whom he is interested. He has had his eye on
you ever since he saw you play Rosalind. He told
me when he came back from that trip that I had a rival
coming on.”
“Oh, no!” Tony objected even in jest to
such desecration.
“Oh, yes,” smiled her
hostess. “Max Hempel is a brutally frank
person. He never spares one the truth, even the
disagreeable truth. He has had his eye out for
a new ingenue for a long time. Ingenues do get
old at least older you know.”
“Not you,” denied Tony.
“Even I, in time. I grant
you not yet. It takes a degree of age and sophistication
to play youth and innocence. We do it better as
a rule at thirty than at twenty. We are far enough
away from it to stand off and observe how it behaves
and can imitate it better than if we still had it.
That is one reason I was interested in your Rose last
night. You played like a little girl as Rose
should. You looked like a little girl. But
you couldn’t have given it that delightfully
sure touch if you hadn’t been a little bit grown
up. Do you understand?”
Tony nodded.
“I think so. You see I am a
little bit grown up.”
“Don’t grow up any more.
You are adorable as you are. But to business.
Have you seen my Madge?”
“In the ‘End of the Rainbow?’
Yes, indeed. I love it. You like the part
too, don’t you? You play it as if you did.”
“I do. I like it better
than any I have had since Rose. Did it occur to
you that you would like to play Madge yourself?”
Tony blushed ingenuously.
“Well, yes, it did,” she
admitted half shyly. “Of course, I knew
I couldn’t play it as you did. It takes
years of experience and a real art like yours to do
it like that, but I did think I’d like to try
it and see what I could do.”
Miss Clay nodded, well pleased.
“Of course you did. Why
not? It is your kind of a rôle, just as Rose is.
You and I are the same types. Mr. Hempel has said
that all along, ever since he saw your Rosalind.
But I won’t keep you in suspense. The long
and short of all this preliminary is how
would you like to be my understudy for Madge?”
“Oh, Miss Clay!” Tony gasped. “Do
you think I could?”
“I know you could, my dear.
I knew it all the time while I was watching you play
Rose. Mr. Hempel has known it even longer.
I went to see Rose to find out if there was a Madge
in you. There is. I told Mr. Hempel so this
morning. He is brewing his contracts now so be
prepared. Will you try it?”
“I’d love to if you and
Mr. Hempel think I can. I promised Uncle Phil
I would take a year of the school work though.
Will I have to drop that?”
“I think so most
of it at least. You would have to be at the rehearsals
usually which are in the morning. You might have
to play Madge quite often then. There are reasons
why I have to be away a great deal just now.”
Again the shadow, darkened the star’s eyes and
a droop came to her mouth. “It isn’t
even so impossible that you would be called upon to
play before the real Broadway audience in fact.
Understudies sometimes do you know.”
Miss Clay was smiling now, but the
shadow in her eyes had not lifted Tony saw.
“I am particularly anxious to
get a good understudy started in immediately,”
the actress continued. “The one I had was
impossible, did not get the spirit of the thing at
all. It is absolutely essential to have some
one ready and at once. My little daughter is in
a sanitarium dying with an incurable heart leakage.
There will be a time probably within the
next two months when I shall have to be
away.”
Tony put out her hand and let it rest
upon the other woman’s. There was compassion
in her young eyes.
“I am so sorry,” she said
simply. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.
Of course, I did know you weren’t really Miss
Clay, that you were Mrs. Somebody, but I didn’t
think of your having children. Somehow we don’t
remember actresses may be mothers too.”
“The actresses remember it sometimes,”
said Miss Clay with a tremulous little smile.
“It isn’t easy to laugh when your heart
is heavy, Miss Antoinette. It is all I can do
to go on with ‘Madge’ sometimes. I
just have to forget make myself forget
I am a mother and a wife. Captain Carey, my husband,
is in the British Army. He is in Flanders now,
or was when I last heard.”
“Oh, I don’t see how you
can do it play, I mean,” sighed Tony
aghast at this new picture the actress’s words
brought up.
“One learns, my dear. One
has to. An actress is two distinct persons.
One of her belongs to the public. The other is
just a plain woman. Sometimes I feel as if I
were far more the first than I am the second.
There wouldn’t be any more contracts if I were
not. But never mind that. To come back to
you. Mr. Hempel will send you a contract to-morrow.
Will you sign it?”
“Yes, if Uncle Phil is willing.
I’ll wire him to-night. I am almost positive
he will say yes. He is very reasonable and he
will see what a wonderful, wonderful chance this is
for me. I can’t thank you enough, Miss
Clay. It all takes my breath away. But I
am grateful and so happy; you can’t imagine
it.”
Miss Clay smiled and drew on her gloves.
The interview was over.
“There is really nothing to
thank me, for,” she said. “The favor
is on the other side. It is I who am lucky.
The perfect understudy like a becoming hat is hard
to find, but when found is absolutely beyond price.
May I send you a pass for to-morrow night to the ‘End
of the Rainbow’? Perhaps you would like
to see it again and play ‘Madge’ with me
from a box. The pass will admit two. Bring
one of the lovers if you like.”
Tony wired her uncle that night.
In the morning mail arrived Max Hempel’s contract
as Miss Clay had promised. Tony regarded it with
superstitious awe. It was the first contract
she had ever seen in her life, much less had offered
for her signature. The terms were, generous appallingly
so it seemed to the girl who knew little of such things
and was not inclined to over-rate her powers financially
speaking. She wisely took the contract over to
the school and got the manager’s advice to “Go
ahead.”
“We’ve nothing comparable
to offer you, Miss Tony. With Hempel and Miss
Clay both behind you you are practically made.
You are a lucky little lady. I know a dozen experienced
actresses in this city who would give their best cigarette
cases to be in your shoes.”
Arrived home at the Hostelry, armed
with this approval, Tony found her Uncle’s answering
wire bidding her do as she thought best and sending
heartiest love and congratulations. Dear Uncle
Phil!
And then she sat down and signed the
impressive document that made her Carol Clay’s
understudy and a real wage-earning person.
All the afternoon she spent in long,
delicious, dreamless slumber. At five she was
wakened by the maid bringing a letter from Alan, a
wonderful, extravagant lover-note such as only he could
pen. Later she bathed and dressed, donning the
white and silver gown she had worn the night when
she had first admitted to Alan in Carlotta’s
garden that she loved him, first took his kisses.
It was rather a sacred little gown to Tony, sacred
to Alan and her own surrender to love. He called
it her starlight dress and loved it especially because
it brought out the springlike, virginal quality of
her youth and loveliness as her other more sophisticated
gowns did not. Tony wore it for Alan to-night,
wanted him to think her lovely, to love her immensely.
She wanted to taste all life’s joy at once,
have a perfect deluge of happiness. Youth must
be served.
Alan, graceful for being forgiven
so easily, fell in with her mood and was at his best,
courtly, considerate, adoring. He exerted all
the magic of his not inconsiderable charm to make
Tony forget that other unfortunate night when he had
appeared in other, less attractive colors. And
Tony was ready enough to forget beneath his worshiping
green eyes and under the spell of his wonderful voice.
She meant to shut out the unwelcome guests of fear
and doubt from her heart, let love alone have sway.
They dined at a gorgeous restaurant
in a great hotel. Tony reveled in the splendor
and richness of the setting, delighted in the flawless
service, the perfection of the strange and delectable
viands which Alan ordered for their consumption.
Particularly she delighted in Alan himself and the
way he fitted into the richness and luxury. It
was his rightful setting. She could not imagine
him in any of the shabby restaurants where she and
Dick had often dined so contentedly. Alan was
a born aristocrat, patrician of the patricians.
His looks, his manner, everything about him betrayed
it. Most of all it was revealed in the way the
waiters scurried to do his bidding, bowed obsequiously
before him, recognized him as the authentic master,
lord of the purple.
“So Carson really has gone to
Mexico,” Alan murmured as they dallied over
their salads, looking mostly into each other’s
eyes.
“Yes, he went yesterday.
I hated to have him go. It is awfully disagreeable
and dangerous down there they say. He might get
a fever or get killed or something.” Tony
absent-mindedly nibbling a piece of roll already saw
Dick in her mind’s eye the victim of an assassin’s
blade.
“No such luck!” thought
Alan Massey bitterly. The thought brought a flash
of venom into his eyes which Tony unluckily caught.
“Alan! Why do you hate
Dick so? He never did you any harm.”
Tony Holiday did not know what outrageous
injury Dick had done his cousin, Alan Massey.
Alan was already suavely master of
himself, the venom expunged from his eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I hate him,
Antoinetta mia? You are half in love with
him.”
“I am not,” denied Tony
indignantly. “He is just like Lar .”
She broke off abruptly, remembering Dick’s flare
of resentment at that familiar formula, remembering
too the kiss she had given him in the dimly-lit hall
in the Hostelry, the kiss which had not been precisely
such a one as she would have given Larry.
Alan’s face darkened again.
“Oh, yes, you are. You are blushing.”
“I am not.” Then
putting her hands up to her face and feeling it warm
she changed her tactics. “Well, what, if
I am? I do care a lot about Dick. I found
out the other night that I cared a whole lot more than
I knew. It isn’t like caring for Larry
and Ted. It’s different. For after
all he isn’t my brother never was never
will be. I’m a wretched flirt, Alan.
You know it as well as I do. I’ve let Dick
keep on loving me, knowing all the time I didn’t
mean to marry him. And I’m not a bit sure
I am going to marry you either.”
“Tony!”
“Well, anyway not for a long,
long time. I want to go on the stage. I
can’t put all of myself into my work and give
it to you at the same time. I don’t want
to get married. I don’t dare to. I
don’t dare even let myself care too much.
I want to be free.”
“You want to be loved.”
“Of course. Every woman does.”
Alan made an impatient gesture.
“I don’t mean lip-worship.
You are a woman, not a piece of statuary. Come
on now. Let’s dance.”
They danced. In her lover’s
arms, their feet keeping time to the syncopated, stirring
rhythms of the violins, their hearts beating to a
mightier harmony of nature’s own brewing, Tony
Holiday was far from being a piece of statuary.
She was all woman, a woman very much alive and very
much in love.
Alan bent over her.
“Tony, belovedest. There
are more things than art in the world,” he said
softly. “Don’t you know it, feel it?
There is life. And life is bigger than your work
or mine. We’re both artists, but we’ll
be bigger artists together. Marry me now.
Don’t make me wait. Don’t make yourself
wait. You want it as much as I do. Say yes,
sweetheart,” he implored.
Tony shook her head vehemently.
She was afraid. She knew that just now all her
dreams of success in her chosen art, all her love for
the dear ones at home were as nothing in comparison
with this greater thing which Alan called life and
which she felt surging mightily within her. But
she also knew that this way lay madness, disloyalty,
regret. She must be strong, strong for Alan as
well as for herself.
“Not yet,” she whispered
back. “Be patient, Alan. I love you,
dear. Wait.”
The music came to an end. Many
eyes followed the two as they went back to their places
at the table. They were incomparable artists.
It was worth missing one’s own dance to see
them have theirs. Aside from his wonderful dancing
and striking personality Alan was at all times a marked
figure, attracting attention wherever he went and
whatever he did. The public knew he had a superlative
fortune which he spent magnificently as a prince,
and that he had a superlative gift which for all they
were aware he had flung wantonly away as soon as the
money came into his hands. Moreover he was even
more interesting because of his superlatively bad
reputation which still followed him. The public
would have found it hard to believe that at last Alan
Massey was leading the most temperate and arduous
of lives and devoting himself exclusively to one woman
whom he treated as reverently as if she were a goddess.
The gazes focussed upon Alan now inevitably included
the girl with him, as lovely and young as spring itself.
“Who was she?” they asked
each other. “What was a girl like that doing
in Alan Massey’s society?” To most of the
observers it meant but one thing, eventually if not
now. Even the most cynical and world-hardened
thought it a pity, and these would have been confounded
if they could have heard just now his passionate plea
for marriage. One did not associate marriage
with Alan Massey. One had not associated it too
much with his mother, one recalled.