That second act had made him shake his head; the third came on with Cora's rejected love, her strangling tears of self-pity, her whirlwind of passion, ending with that frantic and incredible threat. The people caught at it! I suppose the swiftness of its action, the heat and fury following so close upon the two slow, dull acts, pleased and aroused them. The curtain went up and down, up and down, call after call, and when at last it was allowed to remain down, myriads of bees might have been swarming in front, and Mr. Daly, nodding and smiling as I rushed past on my way to change my gown, said: "Hear 'em—hear the bees buzz—that's good! Now if only you——"
I waited not for the rest—too well I knew how to complete the sentence: "If only I could safely hive those swarming bees" for him. Could I? Oh, could I? for the moment was at hand, the "mad-scene," so dreaded, so feared!
Three things I had counted upon to help my effects: the crouch, the laugh, the scar. The crouch had just done splendid service at the end of Act III. Would the other two be as effective?
I went up to the stage; I was to be discovered lying on a lounge. Miss Davenport, magnificently handsome in person and gown, beside me; the others at the gambling-table. As she took my hand she gave a sharp little cry: "Heavens!" she said, "you might be dead, you are like ice!" She touched my forehead, asking, "Are you ill? Why, your head is burning, hot! hot! hot! Mr. Daly, just touch her hands and head!"
He looked down on me in silence; two pairs of frightened eyes met; he gave a groan; threw out his hands helplessly; stepped off the stage, and signaled the curtain up on what was to make or break the play—and he knew no more what to expect than did one of the ushers out in front.
Under cover of the music and the applause accompanying the curtain's rise, I caught myself muttering, vaguely: "The power and the glory—the power and the glory," and knew that involuntarily I was reaching out for the old staff on which I had leaned so many times before.
The scene was on—the laughing cynicism of the Baroness—the chatter of the players—then, at last, George and Cora were alone!
My terror had slipped from me like a garment, I was in the play once more; save for just one awful moment! George had torn the veil from my disfigured face, and, casting in my teeth the accusation: "You are mad!" had left me there alone, standing, stunned by the word! That was the moment of actual dethronement of reason, and, as I slowly, stupidly turned my eyes, I saw Mr. Daly's white face thrust forward eagerly. His gray eyes wide and glowing, his thin hand tightly grasping the lapel of his coat, his whole being expressing the very anguish of anxiety!
One moment I felt I was lost! I had been dragged out of the play at the crucial moment! I clasped my hands across my eyes: "The kingdom and the power!" I groaned—I faced the other way! The low, eerie music caught my attention and awakened my imagination, in another second I was as mad as a March hare. The first time the low, gibbering laugh swelled into the wild, long-sustained shrieking ha! ha! a voice said, low and clear: "Oh, dear God!"
Yet I who had heard the genuine laugh at the mad-house knew this to be but a poor, tame, soulless thing, compared to that Hecate-like distillation—the very essence of madness, that ran through that real gibber of laughter.