ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Although Max Hempel had not openly sought out Tony Holiday he was
entirely aware of her presence in the city and in the dramatic school.
Whenever she played a role in the course of the latter's program he had
his trusted aides on the spot to watch her, gauge her progress, report
their finding to himself. Once or twice he had come himself, sat in a
dark corner and kept his eye unblinking from first to last upon the girl.
In November it had seemed good to the school to revive The Killarney
Rose, a play which ten years ago had had a phenomenal run and ended as it
began with packed houses. It was past history now. Even the road
companies had lapsed, and its name was all but forgotten by the fickle
public which must and will have ever new sensations.
Hempel was glad the school had made this particular selection, doubly
glad it had given Antoinette Holiday the title role. The play would show
whether the girl was ready for his purposes as he had about decided she
was. He would send Carol Clay to see her do the thing. Carol would know.
Who better? It was she who created the original Rose.
Tony Holiday behind the scene on that momentous evening, on being
informed that Carol Clay--the famous Carol Clay herself--the real
Rose--was out there in a box, was paralyzed with fear, for the first
time in her life, victim of genuine stage fright. She was cold. She was
hot. She was one tremendous shake and shiver. She was a very lump of
stone. The orchestra was already playing. In a moment her call would
come and she was going to fail, fail miserably. And with Carol Clay
there to see.
Some flowers and a card were brought in. The flowers were from Alan of
course, great crimson roses. It was dear of him to send them. Later she
would appreciate it. But just now not even Alan mattered. She glanced at
the card which had come separately, was not with the flowers. It was
Dick's. Hastily she read the pencil-written scrawl. "Am covering the
Rose. Will be close up. See you after the show. Best o' luck and love."
Tony could almost have cried for joy over the message. Somehow the
knowledge of Dick's nearness gave her back her self-possession. She had
refused to let Alan come. His presence in the audience always distracted
her, made her nervous. But Dick was different. It was almost like having
Uncle Phil himself there. She wouldn't fail now. She couldn't. It was for
the honor of the Hill.
A moment later, still clutching Dick's comforting card, she ran in on the
stage, swinging her sun-bonnet from its green ribbons with hoydenish
grace, chanting a gay little lilt of an Irish melody. Her fear had gone
even as the dew might have disappeared at the kiss of the sun upon the
Killarney greensward.
Almost at once she discovered Dick and sang a part of her song straight
down at him. A little later she dared to let her eyes stray to the box
where Carol Clay sat. The actress smiled and Tony smiled back and then
forgot she was Tony, was henceforth only Rose of Killarney.
It was a winsome, old-timey sort of play, with an almost Barriesque
charm and whimsicality to it. The witching little Rose laughed and danced
and sang and flirted and wept and loved her way through it and in the end
threw herself in the right lover's arms, presumably there to dwell happy
forever after.
After the last curtain went down and she had smiled and bowed and kissed
her hand to the kindly audience over and over Tony fled to the dressing
room where she could still hear the intoxicating, delightful thunder of
applause. It had come. She could act. She could. Oh! She couldn't live
and be any happier.
But, after all she could stand a little more joy without coming to an
untimely end, for there suddenly smiling at her from the threshold was
Carol Clay congratulating her and telling her what a pleasure to-night's
Rose had been to the Rose of yesterday. And before Tony could get her
breath to do more than utter a rather shy and gasping word of gratitude,
the actress had invited her to take tea with her on the next day and she
had accepted and Carol Clay was gone.
It was in a wonderful world of dreams that Tony Holiday dwelt as she
removed a little of her makeup, gave orders to have all her flowers sent
to a near-by hospital, except Alan's, which she gathered up in her arms
and drawing her velvet cloak around her, stepped out into the
waiting-room.
But it was a world of rather alarming realities that she went into. There
was Dick Carson waiting as she had bidden him to wait in the message she
had sent him. And there was Alan Massey, unbidden and unexpected. And
both these males with whom she had flirted unconscionably for weeks past
were ominously belligerent of manner and countenance. She would have
given anything to have had a wand to wave the two away, keep them from
spoiling her perfect evening. But it was too late. The hour of reckoning
which comes even to queens was here.
"Hello, you two," she greeted, putting on a brave front for all her
sinking heart. She laid down the roses and gave a hand impartially to
each. "Awfully glad to see you, Dicky. Alan, I thought I told you not to
come. Were you here all the same?"
"I was. I told you so in my note. Didn't you get it? I sent it in with
the roses." He nodded at the flowers she had just surrendered.
Dick's eyes shadowed. Massey had scored there. He had not thought of
flowers. Indeed there had been no time to get any he had gotten the
assignment so late. There had been quantities of other flowers, he knew.
The usher had carried up tons of them it seemed to the popular Rose, but
she carried only Alan Massey's home with her.
"I am sorry, Alan. I didn't see it. Maybe it was there; I didn't half
look at the flowers. Your message did me so much good, Dicky. I was
scared to death because they had just said Miss Clay was outside. And
somehow when I knew you were there I felt all right again. I carried your
card all through the first act and I know it was your wishing me the best
o' luck that brought it."
She smiled at Dick and it was Alan's turn to glower. She had not looked
at his roses, had not cared to look for his message; but she carried the
other man's card, used it as a talisman. And she was glad. The other was
there, but she had forbidden himself--Alan Massey--to come, had even
reproached him for coming.
A group of actors passed through the reception room, calling gay
goodnights and congratulations to Tony as they went and shooting glances
of friendly curiosity at the two, tall frowning men between whom the
vivacious Rose stood.
"Tony Holiday doesn't keep all her lovers on the stage," laughed the
near-heroine as she was out of hearing. "Did you ever see two gentlemen
that hated each other more cordially?"
"She is an arrant little flirt, isn't she, Micky?" The speaker challenged
the Irish lover of the play who had had the luck to win the sweet, thorny
little Killarney Rose in the end and to get a real, albeit a play kiss
from the pretty little heroine, who as Tony Holiday as well as Rose was
prone to make mischief in susceptible male hearts.
"She can have me any minute, on the stage or off," answered Micky
promptly. "She's a winner. Got me going all right. Most forgot my lines
she was so darned pretty."
Dick took advantage of the confusion of the interruption to get in his
word.
"Will you come out with me for a bite somewhere, Tony. I won't keep you
late, but there are some things I want to talk over with you."
Tony hesitated. She had caught the ominous flash of Alan's eyes. She was
desperately afraid there would be a scene if she said yes to Dick now in
Alan's hearing. The latter strode over to her instantly, and laid his
hand with a proprietorial air on her arm. From this point of vantage he
faced Dick insolently.
"Miss Holiday is going out with me," he asserted. "You--clear out."
The tone and manner even more than the words were deliberate insult.
Dick's face went white. His mouth set tight. There was almost as ugly a
look in his eyes as there was in Alan's. Tony had never seen him look
like that and was frightened.
"I'll clear out when Miss Holiday asks me to and not before," he said in
a significantly quiet voice. "Don't go too far, Mr. Massey. I have taken
a good deal from you. There's a limit. Tony, I repeat my question. Will
you go out with me to-night?"
Before Tony could speak Alan Massey's long right arm shot out in Dick's
direction. Dick dodged the blow coolly.
"Hold on, Massey," he said. "I'm perfectly willing to smash your head any
time it is convenient. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure in fact.
But you will kindly keep from making trouble here. You can't get a
woman's name mixed up with a cheap brawl such as you are trying to start.
You know, it won't do."
Alan Massey's white face turned a shade whiter. His arm fell. He turned
back to Tony, real anguish in his fire-shot eyes.
"I beg your pardon, Tony dearest," he bent over to say. "Carson is right.
We'll fight it out elsewhere when you are not present. May I take you to
the taxi? I have one waiting outside."
Another group of people passed through the vestibule, said goodnight and
went on out to the street exit. It made Tony sick to think of what they
would have seen if Dick had lost his self control as Alan had. She
thought she had never liked Dick as she did that moment, never despised
Alan Massey so utterly. Dick was a man. Alan was a spoiled child, a
weakling, the slave of his passions. It was no thanks to him that her
name was not already bandied about on people's lips, the name of a girl,
about whom men came to fist blows like a Bowery movie scene. She was
humiliated all over, enraged with Alan, enraged with herself for
stooping to care for a man like that. She waited until they were
absolutely alone again and then said what she had to say. She turned to
face Alan directly.
"You may take me nowhere," she said. "I don't want to see you again as
long as I live."
For an instant Alan stared at her, dazed, unable to grasp the force of
what she was saying, the significance of her tone. As a matter of fact
the artist in him had leaped to the surface, banished all other
considerations. He had never seen Tony Holiday really angry before. She
was magnificent with those flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks--a glorious
little Fury--a Valkyrie. He would paint her like that. She was
stupendous, the most vividly alive thing he had ever seen, like flame
itself, in her flaming anger. Then it came over him what she had said.
"But, Tony," he pleaded, "my belovedest--"
He put out both hands in supplication, but Tony whirled away from them.
She snatched the great bunch of red roses from the table, ran to the
window, flung up the sash, hurled them out into the night. Then she
turned back to Alan.
"Now go," she commanded, pointing with a small, inexorable hand to the
door.
Alan Massey went.
Tony dropped in a chair, spent and trembling, all but in tears. The
disagreeable scene, the piled up complex of emotions coming on top of the
stress and strain of the play were almost too much for her. She was a
quivering bundle of nerves and misery at the moment.
Dick came to her.
"Forgive me, Tony. I shouldn't have forced the issue maybe. But I
couldn't stand any more from that cad."
"I am glad you did exactly what you did do, Dick, and I am more grateful
than I can ever tell you for not letting Alan get you into a fight here
in this place with all these people coming and going. I would never have
gotten over it if anything like that had happened. It would have been
terrible. I couldn't ever have looked any of them in the face again."
She shivered and put her two hands over her eyes ashamed to the quick at
the thought.
Dick sat down on the arm of her chair, one hand resting gently on the
girl's shoulder.
"Don't cry, Tony," he begged. "I can't stand it. You needn't have
worried. There wasn't any danger of anything like that happening. I care
too much to let you in for anything of that sort. So does he for that
matter. He saw it in a minute. He really wouldn't want to do you any harm
anyway, Tony. Even I know that, and you must know it better than I."
Tony put down her hands, looked at Dick. "I suppose that is true," she
sighed. "He does love me, Dick."
"He does, Tony. I wish he didn't. And I wish with all my heart I were
sure you didn't love him."
Tony sighed again and her eyes fell.
"I wish--I were sure, too," she faltered.
Dick winced at that. He had no answer. What was there to say?
"I don't see why I should care. I don't see how I can care after
to-night. He is horrid in lots of ways--a cad--just as you called him. I
know Larry would feel just as you do and hate to have him come near me.
Larry and I have almost quarreled about it now. He thinks Uncle Phil is
all wrong not to forbid my seeing Alan at all. But Uncle Phil is too
wise. He doesn't want to have me marry Alan any more than the rest of you
do but he knows if he fights it it would put me on the other side in a
minute and I'd do it, maybe, in spite of everybody."
"Tony, you aren't engaged to him?"
She shook her head.
"Not exactly. I am afraid I might as well be though. I said I didn't
ever want to see him again, but I didn't mean it. I shall want to see him
again by to-morrow. I always do no matter what he does. I always shall I
am afraid. It is like that with me. I'm sorry, Dicky. I ought to have
told you that before. I've been horrid not to, I know. Take me home now,
please. I'm tired--awfully tired."
Going home in the cab neither spoke until just as they were within a few
blocks of the Hostelry when Dick broke the silence.
"I am sorry all this had to happen to-night," he said. "Because, well, I
am going away tomorrow."
"Going away! Dick! Where?" It was horribly selfish of her, Tony knew;
but it didn't seem as if she could bear to have Dick go. It seemed as if
the only thing that was stable in her reeling life would be gone if he
went. If he went she would belong to Alan more and more. There would be
nothing to hold her back. She was afraid. She clung to Dick. He alone of
the whole city full of human beings was a symbol of Holiday Hill. With
him gone it seemed to her as if she would be hopelessly adrift on
perilous seas.
"To Mexico--Vera Cruz, I believe," he answered her question.
"Vera Cruz! Dick, you mustn't! It is awful down there now. Everybody says
so." He smiled a little at that.
"It is because it is more or less awful that they are sending me," he
said. "Journalism isn't much interested in placidity. A newspaper man has
to be where things are happening fast and plenty. If things are hot down
there so much the better. They will sizzle more in the copy."
"Dick! I can't have you go. I can't bear it." Tony's hand crept into
his. "Something dreadful might happen to you," she wailed.
He pressed her hand, grateful for her real trouble about him and for
her caring.
"Oh no, dear. Nothing dreadful will happen to me. You mustn't worry,"
he soothed.
"But I do. I shall. How can I help it? It is just as if Larry or Ted were
going. It scares me."
Dick drew away his hand suddenly.
"For heaven's sake, Tony, please don't tell me again that I'm just like
Larry and Ted to you. It is bad enough to know it without your rubbing it
in all the time. I can't stand it--not to-night."
"Dick!" Tony was startled, taken aback by his tone. Dick rarely let
himself go like that.
In a moment he was all contrition.
"Forgive me, Tony. I'm sorry I said that. I ought to be thankful you care
that much, and I am. It is dear of you and I do appreciate it."
"Oh me!" sighed Tony. "Everything I do or say is wrong. I wish I did care
the other way for you, Dicky dear. Truly I do. It would be so much nicer
and simpler than caring for Alan," she added naïvely.
"Life isn't fixed nice and simple, Tony. At least it never has
been for me."
"Oh, Dick! Everything has been horribly hard for you always, and I'm
making it harder. I don't want to, Dicky dear. You know I don't. It is
just that I can't help it."
"I know, Tony. You mustn't bother about me. I'm all right. Will you tell
me just one thing though? If you hadn't cared for Massey--no I won't put
it like that. If you had cared for me would my not having any name have
made any difference?"
"Of course it wouldn't have made any difference, Dicky. What does a name
matter? You are you and that is what I would care for--do care for. The
rest doesn't matter. Besides, you are making a name for yourself."
"I am doing it under your name--the one you gave me."
"I am proud to have it used that way. Why wouldn't I be? It is honored.
You have not only lived up to it as you promised Uncle Phil. You have
made it stand for something fine. Your stories are splendid. You are
going to be famous and I--Why, Dicky, just think, it will be my name you
will take on up to the stars. Oh, we're here," as the cab jolted to a
halt in front of the Hostelry.
The cabby flung open the door. Tony and Dick stepped out, went up the
steps. In a moment they were alone in the dimly lit hall.
"Tony, would you mind letting me kiss you just once as you would Larry or
Ted if one of them were going off on a long journey away from you?"
Dick's voice was humble, pleading. It touched Tony deeply, and sent the
quick tears welling up into her eyes as she raised her face to his.
For a moment he held her close, kissed her on the cheek and then
released her.
"Good-by, Tony. Thank you and God bless you," he said a little huskily as
he let her go.
"Good-by, Dick." And then impulsively Tony put up her lips and kissed
him, the first time he ever remembered a woman's lips touching his.
A second later the door closed upon him, shutting him out in the night.
He dismissed the cab driver and walked blindly off, not knowing or caring
in what direction he went. It was hours before he let himself into his
lodging house. It seemed as if he could have girdled the earth on the
strength of Tony Holiday's kiss. The next morning he was off for Mexico.