CHAPTER III

We who sit in the orchestra of life are inclined to smile, to lend willing ear to whispers of scandal from behind the footlights. Perhaps the standards are a bit less rigid on the surface. But so are emotions. They cannot be hidden as the rest of the world has learned to hide them but must be brought forth on the stage nightly that we at play may know the joy of laughter and tears for which our own lives do not exact payment.

Those twin giants, Opportunity and Propinquity, stand guard at the stage door, ushering in with a flourish each newcomer. Human frailty is their stock in trade, the theater their most satisfactory market. For a year they had stalked the steps of Gloria Cromwell and John Brooks. For a year they had appeared at unexpected moments, working in absolute harmony, waiting with tongue in cheek for the unguarded second when the set line of the man’s mouth would relax; when his lips would tell her what his arms had not yet made known; when the woman’s voice with its strange thrilling note would meet his and confess.

And they had been cheated. The unguarded second had come on the dingy stage of a small town theater during the tour of “Lady Fair”—with Gloria crumpling at his feet and his arms going round her in a sudden desperate clasp. Alone in her dressing-room, her opening eyes had met the look in his like a shaft of light struck through blindness. His whispered “Gloria,” the straining of her close as if to hold her always; the swift loosening of that hold; the step backward; the breaking of their locked gaze.

If love could be classified—and of course it cannot—I wonder how we would label love that goes quietly on its way without hysteria, without big scenes, with no effort to grasp that to which it has no right; knowing that it must endure, even while it can never find fulfillment.

’Dolph Cleeburg, with round eyes constantly in search of new angles on old conflicts, did not dream that daily in his own home, in his own theater, those eyes were looking upon drama more vibrant than any he could see in a mimic world—the quiet tragedy of passion which in daily contact with its object, yet soldierwise faces its own death knell.

He took note of nothing but the crowds that jammed the theater. He planned gaily for next season’s tour, to be topped by triumphal entry into London.

“You and John will be a knock-out over there,” he told Gloria, eyes popping. “Even if I am sore at him, I’ve got to admit he knows his job.”

Gloria looked out at the hills, shorn of all but bare-limbed trees and covered with a fine frost, the gray beard of coming winter. It was their final week-end in the country, later than they usually remained. But she had wanted it so.

“Have you spoken to John about going?” she asked.

“Not since he was here. Haven’t spoken to him at all.”

“Big baby!” she laughed.

“Well, he hurt my feelings. I can’t forget the way he gave us the go-by.”

“Then—then why send him abroad?” It came with a sharp intensity. “We can look the ground over when we cross this summer and engage an Englishman.”

“Not on your life! You and John pull too well together. The pair of you will give ’em a taste of real American pep.”

She hesitated, eyes riveted to the vista of cold hills. Suddenly she wheeled round, one hand grasping the drape that bordered the French window. The next words came like a catapult.

“’Dolph, don’t book me for London! I’m not going! I don’t want to play there.”

“You don’t—” Cleeburg’s jaw dropped in sheer amazement.

“No,” she raced on. “I’ve been thinking about it—a lot. I don’t want to go.”

“But why?”

“I’ve never been over. I don’t know any one—”

“That won’t take long. Why, they’ll be giving you a rush the day after you land. And there’s John for company if you get homesick.”

“Yes, I know. But”—she turned once more to the stripped hills, then back with something like terror in her eyes—“but it’s you I need, ’Dolph. I don’t want to be so far away from you.”

He got out of the chair that hugged his merry fire, went to her, laid a hand that trembled over hers.

“Y’mean that, kiddo? After six years of me, do I honest-to-God matter as much as that?”

Her hand curled up and over his, holding it tight.

“Oh, ’Dolph, if you knew how much I need you! More now than ever before! Don’t send me away—don’t!”

Cleeburg’s eyes went up to hers. Hers went down before them.

“By godfrey!” he said finally, brushing a hand across his eyes. “Think I’m crying. Ain’t ashamed of it, either.”

She did not answer.

“You, too!” He peered under her lowered lids. “Fine pair of slushes, eh? Well, I want to tell you right now, honey—ain’t a knock-out I ever had that made a hit with me like this does.”

She brought a smile to her silent lips.

“All I’m looking for is the best thing for you,” he went on. “You’re the main guy in this combination. I’m just the old back drop like I told you. If you ain’t going to be happy in London, you don’t go—that’s all. But think it over! I’d like to see my little girl make the Britishers sit up. We’ll give them the once-over this summer. Then you can decide.”

* * * * *

The memory of that afternoon with Gloria against the sunless winter twilight begging not to be sent away from him, was to little ’Dolph like some treasure one keeps in a vault—to be taken out, gazed upon and locked away again. Sometimes in the rear office that was his sanctum, when things had gone wrong or a lull came in the day’s activities, he would sink back in his chair, a smile slowly radiating his plain features, and before him would come a woman with arms outstretched toward him as if for protection against all the world. The wonder of it made him glow, sent the worries of business scurrying into the background.

He was seated so one Saturday afternoon between the matinée and evening performances, after having rounded up the tour for next season. The immortal cigar circled contentedly and he lolled back, contemplating a sweep of intense blue sky—but seeing rather the Long Island hills against a somber one—when his secretary brought word that John Brooks was outside and wanted to see him.

Cleeburg nodded.

“Lo, stranger,” he said a bit sheepishly as the latter came in. “Time you showed up.”

“I’ve been trying to see you for the past month,” Brooks informed him, throwing hat and coat on a chair and pulling another close to Cleeburg’s desk, “but you passed me up every time we met. Never mind, old man,” he added with a short smile as the other started to lay down his cigar, “I know why. You were sore at me—and with reason. We’ll let it go at that. I’m sorry.”

“So’m I,” grinned little ’Dolph and sat back again. “When I like a fellow, I like him. Enemies can’t hurt my feelings. Now what’s on your mind?”

Brooks got up as suddenly as he had sat down, took a turn the length of the room, and came back.

“’Dolph”—he began somewhat awkwardly and stopped. “’Dolph,—when this season closes I’m going to ask you to get some one else for the road. I can’t go out next year.”

For the space of a breath the manager said nothing. He sat blinking uncertainly as if not sure of his ears. Then he jerked forward.

“What’s that?”

“I know it seems a rotten trick to pull. But I want you to take my word, ’Dolph, that I wouldn’t do it if I hadn’t justifiable reasons.”

“Am I to understand that you’re handing me your notice?”

“Yes, old man.”

“You’re notifying me that you quit?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When we close. If you can let me off before then—”

Cleeburg’s laugh cut the sentence like an ax. It held—sharp, contemptuous. Then his teeth shut on his cigar until the end broke off in his mouth.

“Who’s offering to star you?” came tersely.

A flash from the other’s eye answered the arraignment. But his reply was low and quiet.

“Nobody.”

“Since when did you take me for an easy mark?”

“’Dolph,” Brooks began, “you and I have been on the level with each other always. I’ve played fair and I’m going to keep on playing fair. I’m quitting for reasons I can’t make clear to you now. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“The hell I will!” Cleeburg shot out. “This has been coming a long time. I saw it when you were in the country. Swelled head—that’s the answer! Didn’t think they could do it to you. But those society snobs have got you thinking you’re Edwin Booth.”

The other man’s thin lips opened. His eyes narrowed with a look almost of menace. Then in silence he picked up a flexible paper cutter and bent it slowly in two. There was a snap. He chucked the pieces on the desk.

“That’s a damned injustice, Cleeburg. Wish you hadn’t said it. But it won’t change matters any. I’m quitting.”

“Look here, sorry if I was hasty. You hit me hard—that’s all! Sit down. Let’s talk it over—cards on the table. What’s the big idea?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. Somebody’s after you. Somebody’s going long on the golden promise stuff. I ain’t a fool. That’s plain as the nose on your face. Now who is it? Kane? Coghlan? Surprised they didn’t try to get you long ago.”

“They did. I turned them down.”

Beads of perspiration had gathered on Cleeburg’s head. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped mechanically.

“Anything wrong downstairs?”

“N-no.”

The manager looked up sharply. “If there’s trouble, just spill it and I’ll settle things to your satisfaction.”

“Nothing wrong, old man.”

“Then look here, let’s get down to cases. If it’s business, we’ll talk business. You’ve got to stay. Gloria can’t get along without you.”

Brooks’ eyes shifted to the window.

“I don’t want any trouble for her,” little ’Dolph pursued. “I’ve got you billed together next season. Her public looks for you both. I’ll meet any offer you got. Yes—and top it.”

Brooks turned back slowly, shook his head.

Cleeburg sprang up.

“Well, get me straight—will you? You’re tied up tight. And I won’t let you off. Now I’ll just about show you where you stand.” His thumb went down on the press-button in his desk as if it were going through the top. “Bring me Mr. Brooks’ contract,” he told his secretary.

Brooks walked over to the window. His hands were shaking. His face was dead white. He stood staring out with jaws set and the look of a man going into battle.

But Cleeburg saw nothing of that. His own hands opened and shut spasmodically. He tramped steadily back and forth the space of his desk, muttering to himself like the rumble of storm. Under the puzzled question that brought brows together was a frown of fury.

When the contract was handed him, he rustled quickly through the pages, scanning the closely typed sheets, studying it clause for clause.

“No, sir! I’ve got you!” he ended triumphantly.

“’Dolph, I’ve never asked favors—not from you nor any other man. But I ask you now to let me off without any kick. You know me well enough to realize I wouldn’t, without some good reason.”

“Then I’ve got to know what that reason is.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Not the ghost of an excuse, yet you want me to let you quit without a murmur! What d’you think I am?”

“I think you’re man enough not to try to hold me, contract or no contract.”

“That won’t work! Here it is, black on white.” He banged down the contract. “No loophole for three years! It’s ironclad.”

“Then I’ll have to break it,” the man at the window said quietly.

Cleeburg went close to him. For some unaccountable reason this man calmly breaking all rules of the game, made him feel apologetic. An outraged sense of justice added to his fury.

“Oh, you will—will you? Well, we’ll just look after that. Whatever you’ve got up your sleeve, Brooks, it’s a skunk trick. And I won’t stand for it, d’you hear? I’ll stop you from tying up with anybody else. S’help me, I will!”

“I’m not tying up with anybody else. I’m quitting—for good.”

“What?”

“That’s why I want you to release me.”

Cleeburg gave the same hard contemptuous laugh as before.

“What’re you trying to put over?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean to tell me you’re chucking a profession when you’re right on top?”

“I’m going back to the law—if the world hasn’t too keen a sense of humor to accept a one-time actor as a lawyer.”

The manager gave him one long uncomprehending look, then flung back his head and roared. It was laughter not pleasant to listen to. Brooks stood it silently for a stretch while his hands twitched. Then his eyes flared as if fire were behind them. Still he did not turn from the window.

“Let’s end this, will you? We’re not getting anywhere. And I’ve given you my ultimatum.”

“Well, I’ll give you mine.” Cleeburg had lost all count of words. The bruise of bucking against a stone wall had made him see red. “You stick to Gloria or I’ll make it so hot for you that they’ll hoot you out of this town! That’s the only way to handle—swine!” He broke off, turned on his heel, went back to the desk. Suddenly he leaned across it. “What the hell do you want, anyhow?”

Brooks came round like a pivot. The other man’s breath held at the look on his face. “I want your wife! Now for God’s sake throw me out, will you!”

It was quite still in the room. Even the words were spoken in something less than a whisper. When they had come there was no outward intimation that a man had pulled down a mountain crashing about his head.

Cleeburg’s hands clenched where they lay on the desk. He stared across it without changing position. The blood mounted to his wet forehead, then receded, leaving it gray white. His face was that of a man ready to kill. Then he shook his head a little vaguely, felt for the chair behind him, pulled it up to the desk. But he did not sink into it. He caught hold of the arm and stood so, steadying himself.

“Nothing on God’s earth would have made me tell you, ’Dolph,” Brooks went on hoarsely. “I thought I could make you let me off without a word. But you can see for yourself—” He paused—then abruptly: “Do you know what it means to take her in my arms, loving her? Do you know what it means to want another man’s wife and feel her lips on yours every night?”

Cleeburg moistened his own. They opened and closed. His nails dug into the varnish of the chair. His eyes, so long unseeing, visualized in a flash the scene they had gazed upon so often—Gloria in the arms of the man facing him, himself urging them to more intense expression, more abandon of love. Like a raging animal the fighting male leaped up in him—then subsided, knowing it had to fight only itself. He met the straight look. In turn it met his. And he knew that set mouth had spoken truth, clean, uncompromising; could not have spoken at all if it had been otherwise. He groped uncertainly,—spoke at last half in fear, the first thought that had seized him.

“Does—does she—know?”

John Brooks looked into the tortured face and lied without hesitation.

“No.”

“You mean—she hasn’t even guessed?”

“No. And I don’t want her to.”

“That’s why you kept away from us?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you went back to town last time you were with us.”

“Yes.”

“And I thought you were a damned snob!” A hand that trembled came across the desk top. “Sorry I said what I did. Pardon!”

The other made an attempt to treat it lightly. Two shaking hands clasped.

“No trouble about getting off now, eh?”

“I—I’d like to eat dirt for the way I talked to you,” said Cleeburg.

“Forget it! Your assumption was the only logical one. Another man would be after me with a gun for what I’ve told you.”

“Look here,” little ’Dolph stumbled on, “I—I’ll star you myself.”

“No,” Brooks smiled a bit grimly. “I’m quitting—for good.”

’Dolph Cleeburg’s eyes, comprehending now, took in the drawn face and tired look of the man who had fought a losing battle—and won. And some strange click of memory brought simultaneously the same look of desperation in another face. Where had he seen it? When? Why did it haunt him? He sat down, picked up the halves of the paper cutter and tried to piece them together. Suddenly they rattled to the desk. Gloria! Gloria’s white face that night after he had put them through their paces, the night she had clung to him, the night of her strange outburst of hysteria. Gloria’s face when he suggested sending them abroad! Gloria’s face a dozen times since!

His gaze moved slowly toward the door, straining as a man stares through the dark. His thumb pressed the button on his desk, not as before, but mechanically. He waited without moving. Yet his secretary stood in the doorway fully half a minute before he spoke.

“Find out if Miss Cromwell is in her dressing-room. Say I’d like to see her here.”

Brooks took a quick step toward him.

“What do you want her for.”

“To tell her you’re quitting.”

“That’s not necessary. See here, ’Dolph, let’s drop it. You and I understand each other.”

“No harm telling her, is there?”

The other man stepped back and sat down with a gesture that told the futility of argument. He, too, sat with eyes on the door.

Neither spoke. Little ’Dolph’s face seemed to sag. The skin fell heavily round the jaws. The eyes had a vague, helpless look. He took out his handkerchief, folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket. He got up, changed the position of a chair, came back to the desk.

“’Dolph, what are you going to do?” Brooks brought out at last.

“Just tell her,” he repeated.

The door opened and Gloria came in, dressed for the street.

“I’ve been waiting for you to take me to dinner,” she told Cleeburg. “What’s kept you, dear?”

He got up, pushed his chair in her direction.

“News,” came uncertainly after a second’s pause. “Rotten news. John’s leaving us.”

The bomb was flung. He stood peering into her face, waiting for its answer rather than that of her lips.

There would be surprise—there must be that! And after the first start of amazement, a protest. And indignation! The outburst of the actress about to lose the support on which she depends. His hands clenched. That she might not see, he clasped them behind him. God, let her know the anxiety natural under the circumstances! Let her rise up determined to hold this man to his business contract! Let her threaten with all the impersonal fury he himself had shown! Let her prove that to her John Brooks was merely part of her professional life! That as such she would not let him go!

He waited while his silent lips moved in prayer.

Gloria’s first swift glance was to Brooks. His linked with hers. Her fingers locked and unlocked. Twice she opened her lips without speech, then turned back to Cleeburg.

“Has anything happened? There—there’s been no trouble between you, has there?” was all she said.

“Of course not,” Brooks put in quickly. “I’ve told ’Dolph I’m quitting for good. That’s all there is to it.”

Little ’Dolph did not take his eyes from her. Now it would come—surely. She had been too amazed, too taken back before. He waited for the throbbing voice to answer.

“You—you’re leaving the stage?” it asked too quietly.

“Yes,” Cleeburg plunged in. “He’s quitting us—cold. Get that? He’s leaving us in the lurch. What do you make of it?”

With a look of sudden fear, Brooks sprang up. “See here, ’Dolph—”

“John must have some good reason—”

“Do you know what it is?”

She glanced quickly from one to the other. Something in both faces brought her, too, to her feet. “Why should I?”

“You didn’t seem surprised when I told you.”

“I am surprised, of course.”

“Then why in God’s name don’t you make him give you some explanation?”

“Hasn’t he given you one?” she asked very low.

“Yes! Do you want to hear it?”

“’Dolph!” the other man fairly leaped at him.

“Wait a minute!” Cleeburg stretched out a hand. His throat was so parched, he could scarcely bring out the words. “Wait a minute! I’ve got to go through with this. I’ve got to know.” He turned to Gloria. “You asked if anything happened. The biggest thing has happened since you came into the room. I sent for you to tell you John was going. That means you lose the best support you ever had or will have. It knocked me out completely. And you take it without a murmur. You’ve got him under contract, yet you don’t make the ghost of an effort to hold him.”

Gloria’s voice shook as she answered.

“Why should I try to hold him against his will?”

“Why wouldn’t you put up the fight of your life to hold him—unless you’re afraid to?”

“Afraid to?”

“Let’s drop this!” came swift and sharp from Brooks.

“I can’t—I’ve got to know,” Cleeburg broke in pitifully. Then to Gloria like a man pleading for life: “You didn’t want me to book you and John for London. You preferred not to go. That’s a fact, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it—was it because you didn’t want to be over there with him—alone?”

She stared as he put the question—stared into the eyes that were like a bleeding animal’s.

“I didn’t want to go without you. You know that.”

He saw her mouth quiver at the corners and her teeth hold the lower lip. And all her nervousness that night of the dress rehearsal swept before him in torturing detail. He shook his head helplessly. He grasped the arm of a chair as he had once before and steadied himself. Haltingly the words he had known he must speak came at last.

“Why wouldn’t you go without me? Was that—was it because you knew what I know now—that he loves you?”

She gave a start. He saw her eyes fly to the other man’s. There was nothing of indignation in that look, nothing of anger. Terror—yes—and question! But back of both a glow—the instinctive look of the one woman to the one man that will live as long as the world. Because unconscious, it was all the revelation the man who watched her needed. A sort of groping wonder at his blindness seized him. Then little ’Dolph sank into the chair and, like a candle snuffed, hope went out of his eyes.

What she said as she turned back to him was merely a veil drawn across thought to hide its nakedness.

She went over, laid a hand on his shoulder and looked into the poor haggard face that had not learned, as have women, to conceal its suffering. Her own was as white.

“’Dolph, dear—whatever John has told you, I want you to believe that he’s never, by so much as a word, been disloyal to you.”

He patted her hand and tried to smile.

“I know that, kiddo. It’s all right. Honest it is.”

“Don’t blame him. We’ve been together so much. The theater is so different from any other kind of life. It’s so—so intimate.”

“’Dolph has been one hundred per cent there.” Brooks squared his shoulders as he spoke and went toward the door. “Another man would have put a bullet through my head.”

“You—you’ll go on being his friend, ’Dolph?”

“Don’t worry, kiddo.”

“You and I will have each other.” Her voice broke.

His empty eyes came round to her.

“You’re going to stay on with me?”

“Of course I am.”

“Y’mean it?”

“Of course I do.” She looked to Brooks and held out her hand. “Good-by, John.”

He came over and took it and held it for a moment—tight.

“Good-by, Gloria. I’ll be leaving town next week, if ’Dolph’s willing to have an understudy take my place from to-night on. I’m not likely to see you again.”

Their eyes met and managed to smile. Then Gloria looked away. Something in her throat was fluttering like a wild thing.

When she looked back the door had closed.

“You’re all right, honey,” Cleeburg murmured huskily.

Three hours later he let himself into the quiet office, switched on the light and went to the desk. A broken paper knife lay near the inkstand. He picked up the pieces, held them together with half a smile, then let them drop from his hand into the waste basket.

The chair he had pushed forward for Gloria stood as she had left it. He drew it over, sat down, and with broad mouth firm but hands that shook a little, pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him and took up a pen.

The pen moved across the sheet, sometimes hesitating, sometimes swift as a comet. But the determined line of little ’Dolph’s mouth never relaxed.

_My dearest little girl_:

I’ve been thinking a lot since dinner, and when a fellow has sort of lost the habit of thinking about anything but his next show it comes hard. But don’t you jump at the conclusion that what I’m going to say is hasty or that it ain’t final. For years there was a funny old feeling inside of me that I had something to tell the world and no way to tell it. I wanted to put over something on the stage that would sound like music or look like a beautiful painting. Scenery wouldn’t do it. The women I had trained couldn’t do it. I didn’t even know, myself, just what it was. I used to tell myself often I was a poor nut. Then you came along with that voice of yours and those eyes and the fire that hasn’t any name, and did it all for me. If there hadn’t ever been anything more for me than seeing those hopes come true, it would have been enough. But I’ve had you for almost six years. You made me happier than you know, kiddo. And what has a poor old dub like me ever done to expect more than the happiness life has already handed me through you? Why, that’s a fortune that makes the Rockefeller millions look like thirty cents. If I try to hog more, if I keep you from the thing you’ve got a right to, the thing you gave me for six years, shooting’s too good for me.

You don’t think I could let you stay on with me, knowing that you and John belong together, do you? And you do belong together. You know I always said you made a fine team. Why, kiddo, it would finish me. I want you to be happy, that’s all. And I saw to-day where that happiness is for you.

I fixed it so that John couldn’t get off to-night. And I’m going to fix it now so that you’ll play together the rest of your lives. I’m sailing Monday to fix up those English contracts. When I come back in the fall you’re going to be free. No, not free, I’m wrong. I want to take you and John by the hands and say—Bless you, my children!

You remember, I called myself once your old back drop. Well, being that is about the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ll keep on being that if you’ll let me, until you quit the game. Let me go on putting you over just like always and I’ll be O. K. Don’t you worry.

God bless you, kiddo.

’Dolph.

He folded the sheets without reading them, put them into an envelope, sealed it carefully, went downstairs and looked up the head usher.

“Take this to Miss Cromwell and give it into her hands yourself,” he said. “And here, kid.” And he slipped the boy a dollar.

TWO MASTERS

_ROMANCE_

Love is a fantasy, a dream that only sacrifice can make come true. The tragedy of it is not in dying, but in living without it.

TWO MASTERS