The Real and the Make-Believe Page #5

"The Real and the Make-Believe" is a collection of stories by Rex Ellingwood Beach that explores the intricate boundaries between reality and imagination. In this engaging anthology, Beach delves into the human experience, blending vivid storytelling with deep psychological insights. Through various characters and situations, he examines how our beliefs and perceptions shape our understanding of the world. The book captures the tension between truth and fiction, encouraging readers to reflect on their own lives and the narratives they create. Beach's rich prose and thought-provoking themes make this work a compelling read for those interested in the interplay of reality and fantasy.

• Short story

								

some one breathing heavily. Turning with a start, he found Léontine
Phillips at his shoulder. She, too, was aroused, but in her sneering
visage was that which brought the actor abruptly out of his spell. She
had emerged from the shadows noiselessly, and was leaning forward, her
strong hands gripping the edge of the table littered with its many
properties.

Mrs. Phillips had played emotional scenes herself, but never with such
melodramatic intensity as she now unconsciously displayed. Her whole
body shook as with an ague, her dark face was alive with a jealous fury
which told Irving Francis the story he had been too dull to suspect. The
truth, when it came home, smote him like a blow; his hatred for the
author, which had been momentarily forgotten--momentarily lost in his
admiration of the artist--rose up anew, and he recognized this occult
spell which had held him breathless as the thrall of a vital reality,
not, after all, the result of inspired acting. Instantly he saw past the
make-believe, into the real, and what he saw caused him to utter a
smothered cry.

Léontine turned her face to him. "You fool!" she whispered through
livid lips.

Francis was a huge, leonine man; he rose now to his full height, as a
cat rises. But the drama drew his gaze in spite of himself; he could
not keep his eyes from his wife's face. Léontine plucked at his sleeve
and whispered again:

"You fool!"

Something contorted the actor's frame bitterly, and he gasped like a
man throttled. Léontine could feel his muscles stiffen.

But the two players were in Elysium. They had reached the climax of
the scene; Danton had told his love as only a great, starved love can
tell itself, and with swimming eyes and fluttering lids, with heart
pounding beneath her folded hands, Diane swayed toward him and his
arms enfolded her. Her body met his, yielded; her face was upturned;
her fragrant, half-opened lips were crushed to his in a fierce,
impassioned kiss of genuine ecstasy.

Up to this moment the intensity of Francis's rage had held him
paralyzed, despite the voice which was whispering so constantly at his
ear; but now, when he saw his wife swooning upon the breast of the man
who had played his part, he awoke.

"She knows he loves her," Léontine was saying. "You let him tell her
in front of your face. He has taken her away from you!"

Mrs. Phillips's eyes fell upon the working fingers of the man as they
rested beside her own. They were opening and closing hungrily. She
also saw the naked knife which lay upon the table, and she moved it
forward cautiously until the eager fingers twined about it. Then she
breathed, "Go!" and shoved him forward fiercely.

It was Irving Francis's cry of rage as he rushed upon them which
aroused Norma Berwynd from her dream, from her intoxication. She saw
him towering at Phillips's back, and with a scream she tried to save
the latter.

The husband's blow fell, however; it was delivered with all the savage
fury that lay in Irving Francis's body, and his victim was fairly
driven to his knees beneath it. The latter rose, then staggered, and,
half sliding through the woman's sheltering embrace, crumpled limply
into a massive upholstered chair. He, too, was dazed by the sudden
transition from his real world to his make-believe.

When his eyes cleared he saw Norma Berwynd struggling with her
husband, interposing her own slender body in his path. Francis was
cursing her foully for her unfaithfulness; his voice was thick and
brutal.

"Yes! It's true!" she cried, with hysterical defiance. "I never knew
till now; but it's true! It's true!"

"You've killed him!" Léontine chattered, shrilly, and emerged from the
shadows, her dark features ashen, her eyes ringed with white. Mrs.
Francis turned from her husband and flung her arms about the recumbent
man, calling wildly to him.

The dénouement had come with such swiftness that it left all four of
them appalled at their actions. Seeing what his brief insanity had led
him into, Francis felt his strength evaporate; his face went white,
his legs buckled beneath him. He scanned the place wildly in search of
means of escape.

"My God! My God!" Léontine was repeating. "Why doesn't somebody come?"

Now that his brain had cleared, and he knew what hand had smitten him,
and why, Phillips was by far the calmest of the four. He saw the knife
at his feet and smiled, for no steel could rob him of that gladness
which was pulsing through his veins. He was still smiling when he
stooped and picked up the weapon. He arose, lifting Norma to her feet;
then his hand slid down and sought hers.

"You needn't worry," he said to Francis. "You see--this is the new
dagger I got for the end of the act."

He held it out in his open palm for all of them to see, and they noted
that it was strangely shortened--that the point of the sliding blade
was barely exposed beneath the hilt.

Francis wiped his wet face, then shuddered and cursed weakly with
relief, meanwhile groping at the prompter's table for support. "Sold!
A prop knife!" he cried.

"You--you're not really--" Norma swayed forward with eyes closed.

Léontine laughed.

"By God! I meant it," the star exclaimed, uncertainly. "You can't
deny--" He gasped and tugged at his collar.

"I believe there is nothing to deny," the author said, quietly. He
looked first at his wife, then at his enemy, and then down at the
quivering, white face upturned to his. "There is nothing to deny, is
there?" he inquired of Norma.

"Nothing!" she said. "I--I'm glad to know the truth, that's all."

Francis glared first at one, then at the other, and as he did so he
began to realize the full cost of his action. When it came home to
him in terms of dollars and cents, he showed his true character by
stammering:

"I--I made a frightful mistake. I'm--not myself; really, I'm not. It
was your wife's fault." In a panic he ran on, unmindful of Léontine's
scorn. "She did it, Mr. Phillips. She gave me the knife. She whispered
things--she made me--I--I'm very sorry--Mr. Phillips, and I'll play
the part the way you want it. I will, indeed."

Léontine met her husband's look defiantly; hence it was as much to her
as to the cringing actor that the playwright said:

"Your salary will go on as usual, under your contract, Mr.
Francis--that is, until the management supplies you with a new play;
but I'm the real John Danton, and I shall play him tonight and
henceforth."

"Then, I'm--discharged? Norma--d'you hear that? We're canceled.
Fired!"

"No, Miss Berwynd's name will go up in lights as the star, if she
cares to stay," said Phillips. "Do you wish to remain?" He looked down
at the woman, and she nodded.

"Yes, oh yes!" she said. "I must stay. I daren't go back." That
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