The leading lady

by Geraldine Bonner

They found him bolstered up in bed, a haggard spectacle, his eyes, sunk in darkened hollows, seemed to hold all the life left in his body. They hung on the entering men, then swerved to his wife and he made a motion for her to sit beside him. When she had taken her place and he had groped for her hand, his eyelids dropped and he lay for a moment as if gathering strength.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” he whispered. “Glad it’s over. If I’m going on now it can’t be to anything worse than this last thirty-six hours.”

The desire to free his mind possessed him. Rest, he said, rest was all he wanted and it was not for him till he had unloaded the intolerable burden he had carried since Sybil Saunders’ death. In his own words the recital was broken by digressions, memories of his torturing passion, assurances of good intentions that failed of execution, remorse for the wrong he had done his wife. Robbed of the theatrical quality that was of the man’s essence, it was the stark revelation of a soul’s tragedy.

He had never intended to kill her—that was the one point of exculpation he insisted on. His love had made him mad, carried him beyond the inhibiting forces of honor, feeling, reason. That it was hopeless seemed to increase its obsessing power, and she had never for one moment led him to think it was anything but hopeless. Unwaveringly, from the first, her attitude had been dislike, aversion, a horror of his state of mind and himself.

His knowledge of the coming separation had been the igniting motive that caused the inner explosion. After their stay on the island she would go her way, keep her whereabouts hidden from him, and he might never see her again. The thought became unbearable, and led him to a resolution of wild desperation—he would get her alone, once more confess his passion, and if she met it with the old scorn and abhorrence, kill himself before her eyes. He had seen the revolver in the drawer of the desk and on the day of the performance, taken it. To prevail upon her to grant him the interview was the problem, and the evil inspiration came to him to tell her he had news of Dallas, her lover. It was a lie, he knew nothing of the man, but truth, decency, self-respect no longer existed for him.

He described the interview in the living-room, her roused interest and demand for the information. The intrusion of his wife worked with his plan and he had insisted on a rendezvous where they would be free from interruption. They started for the summer-house on the Point, saw Shine there, and made the arrangement to meet in the place at seven. Then she had gone up-stairs to her room and he to the balcony to wait for her.

When he saw her pass the balcony he had risen and followed her. She had moved rapidly, not waiting for him, and he had not tried to catch up with her as he knew she did not want any one to see them together. When he entered the summer-house she was sitting on the bench close to the table on which her elbows rested. His hysterical state, accelerated during the long wait, had reached a climax of distraction and he burst into a stream of words—he had lied to her, he knew nothing, but he had to see her, he had lured her there for a last interview, a final clearing up, and he drew out the pistol. The sight of it, his mad babble of disconnected sentences, evidently terrified her. She leaped to her feet and made a rush like a frightened animal for the opening. Before he could speak or catch her she had brushed past him and fled from the place.

Then something had gone wrong in his head—he couldn’t explain—a breaking of some pressure, a stoppage of all mental processes. In the vacuum one fact stayed—that she had got away from him and he never would see her again. A blind fury seized him and he shot at her as she ran. She was at the summit of the cliff, staggered, threw up her arms and went over. When he saw her body lurch and topple forward the darkness lifted from his brain. He came back to himself as if from a period of unconsciousness and realized what he had done.

He described his state as curiously lucid and far-seeing. The insane outbreak seemed to have freed his intelligence and temporarily suspended the torment of his nerves. The situation presented itself with a vision-like clarity and all the forces of his mind and will sprang into action, combining to achieve his safety. From the shadow of the vines he looked at the house, saw Bassett come to the living-room entrance, glance about and go back. The sound of the shot had evidently roused no forebodings and when no face appeared at window or door, he ran to the pine grove. There he was safe and slipped unobserved to the balcony. He waited here for a moment to get his breath and compose his manner. He was the actor, playing a difficult part with a high-keyed, heady confidence when he entered the room.

His wife—that had been the unforeseen retribution. He had not realized that suspicion would turn on her, and then saw that it might, saw that it did. His hell began when he grasped the danger she was in, listened to Rawson’s questions on the night of their arrival, sensed Williams’ line of thought when the scene was rehearsed on the shore. He had tried to turn them to Joe Tracy, snatching at anything to gain time, but he would have told, he was ready to tell. He kept reiterating the words, his burning eyes moving from one face to the other—he had broken her heart, ruined her life, but he was not so utterly lost as that.