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By dint of the strenuous will of others, to which he yielded himself, he was kept on his feet through the whole run of the play.

And then, released from surveillance, exhausted in mind and body–he fell again.

He blazed like a comet across the theatrical world, and then set as suddenly as he had risen.

Marion heard of it and shuddered. She had had a narrow escape.

* * * * *

She never wrote another play–at least, she never wrote another that pleased a manager. She said she had not time. In spite of her success, she felt a distaste for things theatrical. And perhaps she found that success is not as warm a garment for a shivering life as she had expected. There is a little fleecy wrap called affection, within the reach of all of us, which she might have donned. But, as she often said, there was, unfortunately, no one for whom she had much affection. She was alone in the world. Her interest in the theatre was gradually replaced by religion. Once she heard with real regret that Lenore had lost her memory, and chloral was hinted at as the cause. She thought of trying to save her, of making an earnest appeal to that better self which, according to Marion, exists in all of us. But when she made further inquiries about her, with a view to rescuing her, she was daunted by the discovery that Lenore had been privately married to Delacour for some time past, and that her declension, which was really due to drink, dated from the time of the marriage.

A year passed. Delacour began to make fitful reappearances, then more frequent ones. He took and kept regular engagements. But his wife returned no more.

Presently Marion’s own play was revived with success. It was one of Delacour’s greatest parts. And Marion went to see it, hidden behind the curtains of her box.

The years since she had last sat in that box had not dealt kindly with her. Her discontented face showed that she was one of the many victims of arrested development, still hampered in middle age by the egotistic longings of youth. In youth we all want to receive instead of to give, to be loved, to be served, to be admired. Middle age is the time to reverse engines, the time to love, to serve, to give rather than to receive. Marion had not learned that elementary lesson of life. We all recognise them at sight, the nervous, fretful faces of the middle-aged men and women who want to be loved. And love knows them, too, and–flies them.

The manager, somewhat pinched and grizzled, as from a long fast, came in to see her between the acts, and growled out his disapproval of his leading lady.

“She’s nothing to Lenore,” he said.

“Is she too”–Marion sought for a charitable word–“too ill to act?”

“She is too ill to act,” said the manager. “She will never act any more. She is dying.”

There was a silence.

“She is dying of drink,” he said; “and if there is such a place as heaven, she is very near it. And if there is such a person as God, I hope she will say a word for me when she gets there.”

Marion did not speak. She was horrified.

“She would marry Delacour,” said the manager. “I begged her to marry me. Over and over again I asked her. But she said I could do without her, and Delacour couldn’t. They fell in love with each other at this very play when it was first put on. I saw it coming, and it spelt disaster for her. But it was the real thing; and when the real thing comes, we all have to knock under to it. It doesn’t come often. Most of us are quite incapable of it. I have only seen it once or twice. I dare say I have never felt it, though I should have liked to take care of Lenore, and not let her work so hard, and make a garden for her. She loves flowers and running water. I made the garden just on the chance, but she has never seen it. Down in Sussex it is, with a little old-world cottage in it. It is a pretty place. Pergola; small cascade with rustic bridge; fishpond, with green-tiled floor to show up the gold-fish. And a rose garden. I should have liked her to see it. But she and Delacour! It was like a thing in a book. They fell in love, and he behaved well. He wouldn’t marry her. He said he knew he couldn’t cure himself of drink–that his will was too weak. But she was determined to marry him. She said her will was strong enough for both of them. I don’t know about her will. I think it was her love which was strong enough. He gave in at last and married her. I know I shouldn’t have held out as long as he did. And for a little while things went well. He was at her feet. He told me it was the first time any woman had ever cared for him. For a little while I almost hoped–and then, in spite of his love for her, in spite of everything, he began to drink again. Then she told him that what he drank she should drink, and she stuck to it. If he drank, she drank the same. If he ‘nipped,’ she did the same. When he got drunk, she got drunk. It was kill or cure. And he loved her. That was her hold over him. It took time, but she broke him of it. He suffered too much seeing her kill herself for his sake, and it steadied him. He had to give it up.”

“Then, now–why doesn’t she give it up, too?”

“She can’t,” said the manager, his face twitching. “She was too far gone by the time he was cured. She had not his physique. She was absolutely played out. She is dying, and they both know it. But she does not mind. She has saved him. That was the point. She is perfectly happy. She does not care about anything else. He is a great actor. She has lived to see him recognised. Some women wouldn’t have risked it. But I suppose a woman will take any risk if she loves, at least, women like Lenore will.”

“And does he–in spite of this–does he love her still?” said Marion, with dry lips.

The manager was silent.

“I did not think any one could care as much for Lenore as I did,” he said at last, “but Delacour does–he cares more.”