CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE SONG IN THE NIGHT
Tony Holiday sat in the dressing room waiting her cue to go on the stage.It was only a rehearsal however. Miss Clay was back now and Tony was oncemore the humble understudy though with a heart full of happy knowledge ofwhat it is like to be a real actress with a doting public at her feet.
While she waited she picked up a newspaper and carelessly scanned itspages. Suddenly to the amazement and consternation of the other girl whowas dressing in the same room she uttered a sharp little cry and for thefirst time in her healthy young life slid to the floor in a mercifulfaint. Her frightened companion called for help instantly and it was onlya moment before Tony's brown eyes opened and she pulled herself up fromthe couch where they had laid her. But she would not speak or tell themwhat had happened and it was only when they had gotten her off in a cabwith a motherly, big hearted woman who played shrew's and villainess'parts always on the stage but was the one person of the whole cast towhom every one turned in time of trouble that the rest searched the paperfor the clew to the thing which had made Tony look like death itself. Itwas not far to seek. Tony looked like death because Alan Massey was dead.
They all knew Alan Massey and knew that he and Tony Holiday were intimatefriends, perhaps even betrothed. More than one of them had seen andremembered how he had kissed her before them all on the night of Tony'sfirst Broadway triumph and some of them had wondered why he had not beenseen since with her. So he had been in Mexico and now he was dead, hisheart pierced by a Mexican dagger. And Tony--Tony of the gay tongue andthe quick laughter--had the dagger gone into her heart too? It looked so.The "End of the Rainbow" cast felt very sad and sober that day. Theyloved Tony and just now she was not an actress to them but a girl who hadloved a man, a man who was dead.
Jean Lambert telegraphed at once for Doctor Holiday to come to Tony whowas in a bad way. She wouldn't talk. She wouldn't eat. She did not sleep.She did not cry. Jean thought if she cried her grief would not have beenso pitiful to behold. It was the stony, white silence of her that wasintolerable to witness.
In her uncle's arms Tony's terrible calm gave way and she sobbed herselfto utter weariness and finally to sleep. But even to him she would nottalk much about Alan. He had not known Alan. He had neverunderstood--never would understand now how wonderful, how lovable, howsplendid her lover had been. For several days she was kept in bed and thedoctor hardly left her. It was a hard time for him as well as hisstricken niece. Even their love for each other did not serve to lightenthe pain to any great extent. It was not the same sorrow they had. DoctorHoliday was suffering because his little girl suffered. Tony wassuffering because she loved Alan Massey who would never come to heragain. Neither could entirely share the grief of the other. Alan Masseywas between them still.
Finally Dick came and was able to give what Doctor Philip could not. Hecould sing Alan's praises, tell her how wonderful he had been, howgenerous and kind. He could share her grief as no one else could becausehe had learned to love Alan Massey almost as well as she did herself.
Dick talked freely of Alan, told her of the strange discovery which theyhad made that he and Alan were cousins and that he himself was JohnMassey, the kidnapped baby whom he had been so sorry for when he hadlooked up the Massey story at the time of the old man's death. Dick wasnot an apt liar but he lied gallantly now for Alan's sake and for Tony's.He told her that it was only since Alan had been in Mexico that he hadknown who his cousin was and had immediately possessed the other of thefacts and turned over to him the proofs of his identity as John Massey.
It was a good lie, well conceived and well delivered but the liar had notreckoned on that fatal Holiday gift of intuition. Tony listened to thestory, shut her eyes and thought hard for a moment. Then she opened hereyes again and looked straight at Dick.
"That is not the truth," she said. "Alan knew before he went to Mexico.He knew long before. That was the other ghost--the one he could not lay.Don't lie to me. I know."
And then yielding to her command Dick began again and told her the truth,serving Alan's memory well by the relation. One thing only he kept back.After all he had no proof that the young engineer had been right in hisconjecture that Alan had wanted the dagger to find him. There was no needof hurting Tony with that.
"Dick--I can't call you John yet. I can't even think about you to-nightthough I am so thankful to have you back safe and well. I can't be gladyet for you. I can't remember any one but Alan. You will forgive me, Iknow. But tell me. It was a terrible thing he did to you. Do you forgivehim really?" The girl's deep shadowed eyes searched the young man's face,challenging him to speak the truth and only that.
He met the challenge willingly. He had nothing to conceal here. Tonymight read him through and through and she would find in him neither hatenor rancor, nor condemnation.
"Of course I forgive him, Tony. He did a terrible thing to me you say.He did a much more terrible thing to himself. And he made up foreverything over and over by what he did for me in Mexico. He might havelet me die. I should have died if he had not come. There is no doubt inthe world of that. He could not have done more if he had been my ownbrother. He meant me to like him. He did more. He made me love him. Hewas my friend. We parted as friends with a handshake which was hisgood-by though I didn't know it."
It was a fatal speech. Too late Dick realized it as he saw Tony's face.
"Dick, he meant to let himself get killed. I've thought so all along andnow I know you think so too."
"I didn't mean to let that out. Maybe I am mistaken. We shall never know.But I believe he was not sorry to let the dagger get him. He had given upeverything else. It wasn't so hard for him to give up the one thingmore--the thing he didn't want anyway--life. Life wasn't much to himafter he gave you up, Tony. His love was the biggest thing about him. Ilove you myself but I am not ashamed to say that his love was a biggerthing than mine every way, finer, more magnificent, the love of a geniuswhereas mine is just the love of an every day man. It was love thatsaved him."
"Dick, do you believe that the real Alan is dust--nothing but dust downin a grave?" demanded Tony suddenly.
"No, Tony, I don't. I can't. The essence of what was best in him is alivesomewhere. I know it. It must be. His love for you--for all beauty--theycouldn't die, dear. They were big enough to be immortal."
"And his dancing," sighed Tony. "His dancing couldn't die. It had asoul."
If she had not been sure already that Alan had meant to go out of herlife even if he had not meant to go to his death when he left New Yorkshe would have been convinced a little later. Alan's Japanese servantbrought two gifts to her from his honorable master according to hishonorable master's orders should he not return from his journey. Hishonorable master being unfortunately dead his unworthy servant laid thegifts at Mees Holiday's honorable feet. Whereupon the bearer had departedas quietly as death itself might come.
One of the gifts was a picture, a painting which Tony had seen, and whichwas she thought the most beautiful of all his beautiful creations. Itssheer loveliness would have hurt her even if it had had no othersignificance and it did have a very real message.
At first sight the whole scene seemed enveloped in translucent, silvermist. As one looked more closely however there was revealed the figure ofa man, black clad in pilgrim guise, kneeling on the verge of aprecipitous cliff which rose out of a seemingly bottomless abyss ofterrific blackness. Though in posture of prayer the pilgrim's head waslifted and his face wore an expression of rapt adoration. Above a filmof fog in the heavens stretched a clear space of deep blue black sky inwhich hung a single luminous star. From the star a line of golden lightof unearthly radiance descended and finding its way to the upliftedtransfigured face of the kneeling pilgrim ended there.
Tony Holiday understood, got the message as clearly as if Alan himselfstood beside her to interpret it. She knew that he was telling herthrough the picture that she had saved his soul, kept him out of theabyss, that to the end she was what he had so
often called her--his star.
With tear blinded eyes she turned from the canvas to the little silverbox which the servant had placed in her hands together with a sealedenvelope. In the box was a gorgeous, unset ruby, the gem of Alan'scollection as Tony well knew having worshiped often at its shrine. It laythere now against the austere purity of its white satin background--thesymbol of imperishable passion.
Reverently Tony closed the little box and opened the sealed envelopedreading yet longing to know its contents. Alan had sent her no word offarewell, had not written to her that night before he went out into thestorm to meet his death, had made no response to the letter she herselfhad written offering herself and her love and faith for his taking. Atfirst these things had hurt her. But these gifts of his were beginning tomake her understand his silence. Selfish and spectacular all his life athis death Alan Massey had been surpassingly generous and simple. He hadchosen to bequeath his love to her not as an obsession and a bondage butas an elemental thing like light and air.
The message in the envelope was in its way as impersonal as the ruby hadbeen but Tony found it more hauntingly personal than she had ever foundhis most impassioned love letter. Once more the words were couched in thesymbol tongue of the poet in India--in only two sentences, but sentencesso poignant that they stamped themselves forever on Tony Holiday's mindas they stood out from the paper in Alan's beautiful, strikinghandwriting.
"When the lighted lamp is brought into the room I shall go. And then perhaps you will listen to the night, and hear my song when I am silent."
The lines were dated on that unforgettable night when Tony had playedBroadway and danced her last dance with her royal lover. So he had knowneven then that he was giving her up. Realizing this Tony realized as shenever had before the high quality of his love. She could guess a littleof what that night had meant to him, how passionately he must havedesired to win through to the full fruition of his love before he gaveher up for all the rest of time. And she herself had been mad that nightTony remembered. Ah well! He had been strong for them both. And now theirlove would always stay upon the high levels, never descend to the ways ofearth. There would never be anything to regret, though Tony loving herlover's memory as she did that moment was not so sure but she regrettedthat most of all.
Yet tragic as Alan's death was and bitterly and sincerely as she mournedhis loss Tony could see that he had after all chosen the happiest wayout for himself as well as for her and his cousin. It was not hard toforgive a dead lover with a generous act of renunciation his last deed.It would have been far less easy to forgive a living lover with such astain upon his life. Even though he tried to wash it away by hissurrender and she by her forgiveness the stain would have remainedineradicable. There would always have been a barrier between them forall his effort and her own.
And his love would ill have borne denial or frustration. Without her hewould have gone down into dark pits if he had gone on living. Perhaps hehad known and feared this himself, willing to prevent it at any cost.Perhaps he had known that so long as he lived she, Tony, would never havebeen entirely her own again. His bondage would have been upon her even ifhe never saw her again. Perhaps he had elected death most of all for thisreason, had loved her well enough to set her free. He had told her oncethat love was twofold, a force of destruction and damnation but also aforce of purification and salvation. Alan had loved her greatly, perhapsin the end his love had taken him in his own words "to the gate ofHeaven." Tony did not know but she thought if there really was a God hewould understand and forgive the soul of Alan Massey for that lastsplendid sacrifice of his in the name of love.
And whatever happened Tony Holiday knew that she would bear forever themark of Alan Massey's stormy, strange, and in the end all-beautiful love.Perhaps some day the lighted lamp might be brought in. She did not know,would not attempt to prophesy about that. She did not know that she wouldalways listen to the night for Alan Massey's sake and hear his songthough he was silent forever.
The next day Richard Carson officially disappeared from the world andJohn Massey appeared in his place. The papers made rather a strikingstory of his romantic history and its startling denouement which hadcome they said through the death bed confessions of the man Roberts whichhad only just reached the older Massey's hands, strangely enough on theeve of his own tragic death, which was again related to make the tale alittle more of a thriller. That was all the world knew, was ever to knowfor the Holidays and John Massey kept the dead man's secret well.
And the grass grew green on Alan Massey's grave. The sun and dew and rainlaid tender fingers upon it and great crimson and gold hearted rosesstrewed their fragrant petals upon it year by year. The stars he hadloved so well shone down upon the lonely spot where his body slept quietat last after the torment of his brief and stormy life. But otherwise, asJohn Massey and Tony Holiday believed, his undefeated spirit fared onsplendidly in its divine quest of beauty.
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