by Lilyan Brock
And he would need her—that Sheila knew. She knew to her infinite sorrow what she had suspected and feared almost constantly since first she had gone to Allison: that an insidious force was at work in his body, driving him without mercy, that one day would expend the nervous energy which now spurred him and would lay him crushed and broken in her arms. It had gradually penetrated to her consciousness that he was under the influence of some eastern drug which accounted for his varied moods and the brittle brilliance of his personality, his mad desire to keep moving as if to run away from himself. Discuss it with him she could not. Just as she had retreated behind her own wall of reserve, so she respected his like desire for privacy concerning the affairs which he considered peculiarly his own. There was nothing she could do save watch and wait. She tried not to think about it, accepting the fact that he would talk to her when he chose, and that he felt secure in his secret.
Perhaps it would be better now that he was busy all day, and happy among old familiar surroundings.
Perhaps.
*
“Allison, dear,” Sheila opened the subject at dinner. “You are so busy, and apparently getting such fun out of it, that I seem to feel a sudden urge to work again myself. Would you mind too much if I went back to the theater? I suppose being in New York again has made me homesick, and after all, I have very little to occupy my time.”
“Tired of just playing, Sheila? I can’t say that I blame you. I don’t like the idea of your working particularly… but I won’t be selfish about it. I know how the theater fastens itself on one. It would give you a great deal of pleasure to go back, wouldn’t it, dear?”
“Allison, you are sweet! It would give me pleasure. There’s a challenge in it: remember that I was once the much-talked-of Sheila Case.”
“Much-talked-of,” she mused, the irony of the thought bitter to every fiber of her senses. “Talk—‘and every word stabs’—”
She was pulled back to reality in time to catch Allison’s “I’ll be proud of you, Sheila. I’ll get a big kick out of your putting it over.”
“Thanks, booster. I’ll go down to see Friedman in the morning. Let’s not talk about it any more until I see what he has to offer.”
Sheila rose from the table and kissed Allison lightly on his graying temple, saying, “I shall have to dress now. I won’t keep you waiting long.”
*
Herman Friedman sat talking to the actor whose sensational comeback the past season in one of Friedman’s shows had made him one of the outstanding drawing cards along Broadway.
The producer had gambled—and won—on Philip Rowan’s ability to put the new play successfully over. Business associates had been skeptical of assigning such an important part to a man who had practically vanished from the theaters for the better part of two years. However, Friedman had been firm in his conviction and had given Philip the starring role. The rest was history: his splendid characterization, the enthusiasm with which it had been received, and most gratifying of all to the producer, the leap upward that had shown nightly in his box office statements. Yes, it had been a good bet. He was well satisfied.
Besides, Friedman had always felt most friendly toward Rowan. They had been good friends ever since the day when he had first met the young actor—he felt that he was straight, and clean, and genuine. He had handled Philip for several seasons and it was in one of his shows that Philip had met Sheila Case and married her.
It had been Friedman who had tried to swerve Philip from his decision to leave New York and the theater when his marriage with Sheila had proved a mistake. However, his advice had been rejected, and the boy had disappeared.
Friedman studied Philip as he talked. Yes, he had aged a trifle, and there was beyond any doubt the same sad, far-away look in his eyes that he had noticed when he had first seen him again—an expression that said plainly Philip Rowan had not forgotten. The actor’s next words verified Friedman’s shrewd guess:
“By the way, have you ever heard of anything from Sheila, Herman?” Philip’s casual tone was obviously assumed.
“Not a word, Phil, and I don’t know of anyone who has. I saw Nicoli a week or so ago, and she hasn’t ever had a line from Sheila—said she didn’t have the remotest idea where she was.”
The distant look in Philip’s eyes was intensified. “No, I’m sure she doesn’t know. You see, I asked her when I wanted Sheila’s address to notify her about the divorce.”
The telephone rang. Friedman answered. A look of surprise came over his face as he listened.
“That’s fine,” he said warmly. “I’ll be glad to see what we can find for you. Better drop in around eleven tomorrow— we’ll talk it over then.”
He replaced the receiver and turned back to Philip. “Well, speak of the devil!” he exploded. “That was Sheila, Phil! She’s back, and wants me to find her a play. She’s coming in tomorrow morning. Said she’d been abroad for the past two years—no wonder we didn’t hear about her. She says she hasn’t been working—just traveling, it seems.”
The color had faded from Philip’s face at the startling news. His voice was shaky.
“I want to see her, Herman. I must. Do you mind if I come up in the morning?”
“Not at all, old man—do it if you think you want to. I’m sure she will be glad to see you.” Friedman eyed him keenly. “You’re sure you can stand it, Phil? You know I don’t want you cracking up now.”
The muscles in Philip’s face tightened as he answered, “Don’t worry, Herman—I’ll be okay. You see, I just want to… see her again—that’s all.”
*
Eleven o’clock. The door of Herman Friedman’s office opened, and Sheila entered.
“Sheila Case! I am glad to see you.” Herman Friedman’s round dark features broke into a smile as he rose to greet the truant actress. His pudgy fingers gripped Sheila’s slender ones. “Sit down—tell me all about yourself.”
Sheila seated herself. “Nothing much to tell, Herman, I’ve been all over—the main thing is I’m back and I want to work. I’m really anxious to get started. Have you anything in mind?”
Friedman noted the evasive answer to his query as to her absence, thrust it aside and proceeded.
“Well, to be honest about it, I haven’t a thing of my own that I’m casting. You know I have one of the hits of the season running now—consequently I hadn’t thought of doing anything else at present. Thought I’d lay by a few shekels first.” Friedman laughed goodnaturedly.
Sheila spoke up quickly, her statement bringing a surprised expression to Friedman’s face. “The money part of it is all right, Herman. I’ll finance it myself. All I want you to do is find the play and produce it.”
“Didn’t marry a millionaire, did you, Sheila?” he asked.
Sheila sought about for an answer. What was the use to lie, she asked herself. Herman was obliged to find out about Allison sooner or later; so would Nicoli—the thought hurt—yet wasn’t that exactly what she had decided must happen to keep her, definitely, from going to her? Yes, she might just as well tell Herman—she would. Sheila braced herself.
“No, I haven’t married, but I have met someone I’m very much interested in. We’ve—ah—been abroad together for two years—he’s here now.”
The words shocked Friedman. He could understand them coming from anyone else but Sheila Case. What had happened to her—the girl he had first known? Where were the high ideals that had been such a part of her? He sighed. Well, maybe he’d been mistaken after all. Women were such funny things. His thoughts turned to Philip. What would he think when he knew? Would it be just what the boy needed to help him banish Sheila from his heart?
The producer tried to speak. Sheila noted his difficulty.
“Don’t say it, Herman—you see, I know what you are thinking.” She went on, hurriedly, “Now what about a play?”
“I’ll get busy today, Sheila,” Friedman promised. “Drop in Wednesday morning about this same time. I think I’ll have something t
o show you by then. I’ve turned down several in the last few days because I wasn’t in the market just at present; however, I’ll get in touch with the authors right away. One of them I thought especially good—at any rate, we’ll see.”
“That’s fine, Herman.” Sheila prepared to leave. “I’ll see you then on Wednesday morning.”
The door of the outer office closed. Someone had come in. Friedman glanced at his desk clock—just eleven—Sheila had been a bit early. Yes, he thought, that would be Philip. The producer got up.
“Just a minute, Sheila, before you go. I think there’s someone here that wants to see you.” He walked into the outer office.
Sheila’s heart sank. Was it Nicoli? Surely it couldn’t be… A familiar voice came to her ears—Philip’s voice. She breathed a sigh of relief. Yet with that feeling of escape came a sense of bitter disappointment: despite her fears she had really wanted it to be Nicoli. She turned as Philip entered.
“Sheila—” Philip’s hands reached out eagerly to grasp her own trembling ones.
Seeing him again brought back to her mind the past she had tried so resolutely to forget. It had all seemed so far away… but now the ashy dust of those distant days had risen in a cloud to clog her nostrils and throat and keep her from speaking.
Philip went on, endeavoring to speak lightly. “It is good to see you, Sheila—” his words lost their brightness—“I’ve wanted to so often.”
Sheila’s fingers tightened about Philip’s. “I’m so happy to know you feel that way, Phil. I do want to know that you have forgiven me.”
“We’ll forget all of that, Sheila. However, I do want to tell you that I tried to reach you about our—divorce. We are divorced, you know.”
“No—I didn’t know,” Sheila replied thoughtfully. “You see, I’ve been away so long.”
Philip went on. “I waited a long time. Then, when at last I had given up hope that some day you might come back to me—you were gone.”
Sheila endeavored to direct the conversation into safer channels. “I’m back now to do a show, Phil. Herman is going to find one for me.”
“That’s great! But say, I didn’t know he was thinking of producing another show now. You know I’m working in one of his at the Garrick; we’re in our sixteenth week and we’ve had marvelous write-ups on it. You’ll have to see it, Sheila. Without Glory is the name of it.”
“I will—you may be sure of that, Phil. Have you a good part?” she inquired with genuine interest.
“The best I’ve ever had. Herman gave me a real break: he starred me in it. Took an awful chance, too—I was away from New York nearly two years, right after… we separated.”
“That wasn’t such a tremendous chance, Phil—you always were clever and you know it.” Sheila glanced at her watch.
“I must run! I didn’t have any idea it was so late. Tell Herman goodbye for me—and—” Sheila extended her hand—“goodbye to you, Phil, and the best of luck.”
With a parting smile she hurriedly left the office. Philip sank into a chair beside the desk where Friedman found him a few moments later, head in his hands, apparently lost in thought.
“What’s the matter, Phil?” he asked hesitantly. The actor raised his head. His eyes met Friedman’s kindly ones.
“What’s happened to her, Herman? What is there about her that’s so different? I sense it but I can’t seem to put my finger on what it is.”
The older man reached for a cigar, lighted it, and leaned back in his chair, then answered.
“She is changed. She isn’t the same woman at all. Sheila Case as we knew her could never live as she is living—”
The last words slipped out.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, Phil—nothing. I wasn’t thinking what I was saying. So many things on my mind, you know.”
Philip’s features took on a perplexed expression; but before he could press his questions further, Friedman spoke again.
“You’ll have to excuse me now, I’m afraid. Sorry to chase you away, Phil, but business is business and I have an appointment.”
Philip rose. “No apologies are necessary, Herman. I understand perfectly. See you later.”
*
On Wednesday morning Sheila again felt the searing iron. A play of Nicoli’s had just been offered for production and Friedman insisted that it was just the vehicle for her. She had difficulty in making him see that it was not the type of play she wanted. She did want something that would have the appeal and fire of Nicoli’s work, but not one of her own plays —not without Nicoli to produce it—not just a part of Nicoli.
“This time I want something entirely different, Herman. You must remember I’ve been away from show business approximately two years.” Sheila paused. “That’s a long time on Broadway, as you know. Therefore the play we choose for my comeback must carry a decidedly new idea. It must—”
Sheik searched about in her mind for a legitimate excuse for refusing Nicoli’s script, knowing that Friedman knew as well as she did that it was an unusually strong one as well as a strictly original theme.
She continued, “At any rate, none of the things you have submitted to me thus far appeals to me. I’m not trying to be temperamental, Herman—but won’t you see what else you can find?”
“All right, Sheila, just as you say. I’ll look around, and I’ll give you a ring within the next few days.”
Sheila walked from the office disheartened. In her heart she knew that she had rejected the greater number of the plays Friedman had suggested because they were not up to Nicoli’s standard. She longed to use Nicoli’s new one, but she could not bring herself to consider such a thing—to read lines written by her beloved Nicoli. It carried a role into which she could have put all of herself, and all others suffered by comparison.
“I can’t do it, I won’t do it—and I shall accept the next thing he offers that is half way suitable. The longer I delay, the harder I will make it for myself.”
*
At last a play was selected, and plans for staging it were completed. And still Sheila’s mind was filled with misgivings.
Broadway had ceased to speculate as to the whereabouts of Sheila Case. She might well have vanished from the earth for all the news that had reached New York. Two years had passed when from theatrical centers flashed the report that she was back from a world cruise and had signed a contract to do a new show, production to begin immediately.
Almost on the heels of this news came whispers concerning the angel behind the new venture. His name was Graham, so the story ran; he was in love with Sheila Case, and had been her companion on her long tour. Even now she was living with him openly in one of Park Avenue’s exclusive apartment hotels. There could be no doubt of it—hadn’t attaches of the Friedman office seen his checks and heard Miss Case herself tell the producer of their unconventional relationship? Wasn’t he almost always at the theater to pick her up after rehearsals?
The feeble remaining spark of the gossip about Nicoli and Sheila was quickly fanned back into life by this new tinder. The groups who had discussed them previously took up the old argument.
Friends fought to protect the actress from this new attack, saying that if the latest rumor was true, then it definitely proved that there had never been anything abnormal in the friendship that had existed between her and Nicoli; otherwise, would she have left New York with a man as she apparently must have done ? No, they insisted; Sheila Case was strictly a man’s woman and always had been—and once again they stressed the fact that she was so essentially feminine. True, she might be guilty of this latest charge, but at least she was exonerated from the older and more damning one.
Once again the foul minds to whom gossip and scandal were meat and drink spread malicious stories about Sheila’s latest escapade, as they called it. Didn’t it show conclusively that she was one of those people whose sex-ridden brains would allow them to do anything for the momentary thrill that they might derive? Man or woman, what
difference could it make to one of her type so long as her insatiable appetite for bodily pleasures was satisfied?
It was inevitable that bits of these discussions should read Philip’s ears. Could it be true, he pondered. Would Sheila live openly with any man? How could he associate that actor with the lovely girl who had been his wife? Yet—she had changed; even Friedman had noticed it. His friend’s hastily spoken words returned to add weight to the rumors: “The Sheila Case we knew could never have lived as she is living.” Yes—that was what Herman had said, and this was the thing that had prompted it.
Had he been wrong in his judgment of Sheila from the first? Philip repeatedly asked himself this question. The answer was, finally, he must have been. She evidently had not been possessed of the lofty ideals and inherently fine qualities which he had attributed to her. If such were the case, then it was best after all that their marriage had ended—sooner or later it would have anyway.
Philip sorrowfully dismissed all thought of Sheila as she was now from his mind, and determined to cherish instead the memories of the high-minded, beautiful girl who had stood beside him at the altar so long ago. Behind the closed doors of his heart he would love the dream of her always—as a woman she would cease to exist.
Nicoli read of Sheila’s return and waited impatiently for the announcement of the opening date, reading all she could find about it during the rehearsal period, gazing at the press photographs of Sheila until with misty eyes she laid them aside. Had Sheila forgotten, she asked herself… forgotten, as she herself had forgotten, when at night she lay with aching arms and feverish lips, repeating the name of the woman she loved, hearing in fancy her voice close to her ear, seeing again her fair head on the pillow beside her? “How sweet you were in your sleep, with the starlight, silver and sable, across your hair.”
So terribly did she want to see Sheila again that it was almost beyond her power of will to hold in check the impulse to seek out her beloved. Only the fear lest she find her indifferent to the love they had known could stem the tide of that impulse.