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 t.i.tle 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 grat.i.tude, 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 d.i.c.k Carson waiting as she had bidden him to wait in the message she had sent him. And there was Alan Ma.s.sey, 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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, d.i.c.ky. 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.

d.i.c.k's eyes shadowed. Ma.s.sey had scored there. He had not thought of flowers. Indeed there had been no time to get any he had gotten the a.s.signment so late. There had been quant.i.ties of other flowers, he knew.

The usher had carried up tons of them it seemed to the popular Rose, but she carried only Alan Ma.s.sey'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, d.i.c.ky. 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 d.i.c.k 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 Ma.s.sey--to come, had even reproached him for coming.

A group of actors pa.s.sed 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, th.o.r.n.y 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 p.r.o.ne 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."

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k insolently.

"Miss Holiday is going out with me," he a.s.serted. "You--clear out."

The tone and manner even more than the words were deliberate insult.

d.i.c.k'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. Ma.s.sey. 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 Ma.s.sey's long right arm shot out in d.i.c.k's direction. d.i.c.k dodged the blow coolly.

"Hold on, Ma.s.sey," 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 Ma.s.sey'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 pa.s.sed 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 d.i.c.k had lost his self control as Alan had. She thought she had never liked d.i.c.k as she did that moment, never despised Alan Ma.s.sey so utterly. d.i.c.k was a man. Alan was a spoiled child, a weakling, the slave of his pa.s.sions. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 Ma.s.sey 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.

d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k, 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.

d.i.c.k sat down on the arm of her chair, one hand resting gently on the girl's shoulder.