Queer Patterns

by Lilyan Brock

  Better a thousand times never to see her precious face again than to see those wistful brooding eyes with a light in them other than the one she remembered and loved so well. Nor could she bear to see the mobile mouth form the cold words of a formal greeting, the mouth whose kisses had been the only barrier between a heaven of happiness and a hell of loneliness.

  Then out of Nicoli’s sea of doubts would rise a wave of strength-giving faith assuring her once again that Sheila did love her and would continue to love her, always. Sheila’s words came back, lending confidence: “No matter how things may seem, I’ll be loving you always.” Surely now was the time when Nicoli needed the reassurance of those words, now while all their old friends and acquaintances were telling of Sheila’s new love. Somehow she could not rid her mind of the feeling that, hidden deep beneath the surface, there existed a real reason for Sheila’s unusual actions. Had this been her way of seeking forgetfulness, her way of giving back the self-respect she felt her love had stolen from the one person she had vowed to belong to always? Nicoli’s broken heart told her it had been.

  *

  Sheila’s play opened with Nicoli sitting in the darkened theater, heart pounding furiously, waiting impatiently for the opening curtain to rise. After what seemed an endless wait, the play commenced, with Sheila on the stage almost from the beginning. Sheila Case… Nicoli scarcely recognized the actress as the woman she had directed so successfully, and whom she had loved, still did love, so deeply. In her stead walked a new, cold, marble-like Sheila, someone entirely foreign to her memories.

  Gone was the warmth of voice, the softness of speech that had held her in their thrall. Gone was the wealth of tenderness that had made her so alluring. In their place was a steellike quality, a defiant hardness that broke her heart to see. Sheila was only a ghost of the woman she had known. Or was she? Had she been wrong in her estimation of Sheila’s depth, her capacity to love, her ability to care save for the moment? Or was this defiance a veneer, or a protective veil behind which to hide scars of the blows life had dealt her?

  Nicoli pondered the question in her heart as she watched the play. Would time perhaps answer her question? Would it perhaps bring back to her the Sheila she loved? She bowed her head, praying that time would change the trend of the world’s thoughts so that some day their love might flower again. She prayed, too, that Sheila might be conscious of her nearness, and of her thoughts.

  “Once our thoughts were so close that either of us could have sensed the presence of the other—now I have to ask for it.”

  *

  Sheila was vaguely displeased with her performance and tried frantically to build her work as the play progressed, but to no avail. Try as she might, there was no depth to her voice, she felt, with the result that all of her emotional scenes were unconvincing—lifeless.

  “Was Nicoli out there?” Sheila asked herself as, thoroughly disheartened, she walked to her dressing room after the final curtain.

  “Did she see that flat performance? What must she think of me? How different it might have been if she had been with me! I wanted her to be here, I wanted her to care enough to come—but I can’t bear the idea of what she must be thinking.”

  Allison and a group of friends were waiting for her at her dressing-room door. They greeted her with enthusiastic cries of approval to which Sheila tried to respond graciously.

  “You were magnificent, Sheila! I’ve never seen you more beautiful,” from Allison. “Superb!” from the men with him. A confused babel of words from the women, which might have been anything.

  “Hurry, Sheila, and get dressed. We are having a supper party for you. We’ll wait outside, but don’t be long, will you?”

  Allison stopped for a moment. “Are you too tired, Sheila? But I’m so proud of you—I would like to show you off.”

  “Of course I’m not too tired. I should really like it,” Sheila lied bravely. “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

  The dressing room was massed with flowers sent by the many admirers, old and new, of Sheila Case, and on her makeup shelf lay a number of telegrams wishing her success and expressing joy at her return. All evening Sheila had hoped that a wire might come from Nicoli, but so far none had appeared. She quickly tore open the three which had come in just as she entered the dressing room—no word from Nicoli. Sheila wandered abstractedly about the room reading the small cards attached to the flowers, all of which expressed wishes for a successful comeback. It was so gracious, so thoughtful of them—but after all, what could anything mean when Nicoli alone remained silent?

  Suddenly she stopped. In her hand she held a single long-stemmed rose of purest white. On the tiny square clinging to its thorny stem was the one word “Always.”

  Sheila’s dark eyes took on an added dullness as she recognized Nicoli’s bold handwriting, then became glistening with tears. Nicoli—her Nicoli—had not forgotten: the rose was her means of telling her that in her heart their love still bloomed and flourished, as spotless as the waxlike beauty of the flower she held in her hand. Sheila carried the lovely bloom to her dressing table and tenderly placed it in a slender silver vase. It was with a sense of dread and an aching heart that she forced herself to take her eyes from its perfect beauty.

  As she slowly removed her make-up her thoughts drifted back to the opening night of The Woman Alone. How different it had been! She and her beloved Nicoli had escaped to the blessed privacy of their rooms; there they had dined alone in their happiness, and later, close in each other’s arms, had quite forgotten the play and its success.

  The evening with Allison and his friends was a tiring one. Try as she might, it was impossible to shake off the spell cast upon her heart by Nicoli’s one word “Always.” All of the sorrow and longing returned a thousand-fold as the host of memories came thronging back, all of the desire to forsake everything and rush to her side.

  As if because of it, Allison had been even more affectionate than usual, holding her in his arms at every opportunity, telling her when they danced how he wanted and needed her. Sheila knew as she talked with him that he was not himself. His eyes were dark with the influence of the drug that daily tightened its grip upon him. As she looked at the deepening lines in his face and the fast graying hair, she knew that she could never leave him who would so shortly need her care. When that day came she would not shirk her responsibility to the man who had loved her and helped her by his weakness to justify her own existence—for without someone to live for, Sheila knew she would never have had the courage necessary to go on.

  *

  In the weeks that followed, as Sheila went about her work at the theater, it became more and more apparent to her that a drastic change was coming over Allison. He was no longer surrounding himself with people, but would sit alone in their rooms during the hours of her absence, seeming to prefer solitude and remaining apart even from herself. For hours he would lie in his room resenting any attempt at conversation. Sheila tried desperately to broach the subject to him striving to find a way in which to tell him that she knew an stood willing and waiting to assist him in fighting the consuming narcotic in whose throes he was so tightly held. She asked him what it was that caused him to be so unlike his former self, and Allison flew into a rage and ordered her to leave him alone—once and for all to cease her solicitous attitude toward him. Was he not capable of caring for himself without any interference from her? Nevertheless Sheila’s heart was heavy with the knowledge of the work of destruction going on apace in Allison’s body.

  Her work became less and less that of a great artist, until critics began to speculate as to the reason for the deterioration of this once vital woman; and even the public that knew and loved her so well was compelled to admit that Sheila Case was through.

  It was in the last week of the play’s run that Sheila, returning from the theater, found Allison in a drugged coma from which she could not awaken him. Frantically she called Dr. Harkness her physician and old friend.

  *

/>   Freeman Harkness, specialist in nervous and mental disorders, took Sheila’s cold hands in his own.

  “You will have to know the facts, and the kindest thing I can do is tell you bluntly, now. There is not a great deal of hope. I cannot say that Mr. Graham will not recover—none of us can make such a statement authoritatively. But his condition is very grave. This drug he has been using has been undermining his health for years. It works slowly, but it has a most tenacious hold, one which is almost impossible to break The effect on his heart is the one big thing we have to fear now; it has been carrying a heavy load, and it is cracking under the strain. We shall have to take him off the drug entirely. Perhaps you have an idea what that means? It mean that you will have to watch him constantly, for he will try to take his life when those tortured nerves demand relief—and there can be no relief. He will have to fight it out—not so easy as it sounds. He will be quarrelsome, abusive, noisy, morose; you will have your days and nights of horror just as he will have his. If you can get away, Miss Case, I’d suggest that you take him into the country. There he will have fewer opportunities to do harm. The quiet might prove beneficial to his nerves, and there will be less possibility of embarrassment for you both. I’ll send you a competent nurse who understands thoroughly the care and treatment of such cases, and I advise that you take him away just as soon as you can arrange to leave.”

  Sheila was not surprised at the doctor’s pronouncement; it was rather what she had expected, but the sudden finality of it was crushing.

  “Do you suppose I can take him far enough away so that he can’t manage to get hold of a supply of the drug, doctor? I do know that drug addicts are notoriously clever at finding a way.”

  “That is one point in favor of taking him away quickly, without his being told in advance. Give him time to make no arrangements—and this rare drug will not be found outside the larger cities. I’ll give you a card to a rental agent who will know just the sort of place for you.”

  “Then I will see him today. I want to go just as quickly as I can get away. You are sending the nurse tonight?”

  “First thing in the morning. I’ll make him comfortable for the night and will send in such medicine as you might need when I go out. I shall look in again in the morning. You very probably won’t need me before then. Good night, Miss Case. I’m sorry about this.”

  The following morning Sheila was awakened from her troubled sleep by a light knock on the door of their suite. Hastily donning the silken negligee that hung over the foot of her bed, she slipped quietly from the room, silently closing the door behind her lest her voice awaken Allison who lay so pale and still sleeping.

  Crossing to the door, she opened it slightly. A tall slender woman stood on the other side, wearing a severely tailored blue coat and close fitting hat. Her eyes met Sheila’s as with a smile she said, “Doctor Harkness sent me—I am Jo Trent.”

  Sheila stood aside and in a hushed voice said, “Please come in. I have been expecting you. However, Mr. Graham is still sleeping.”

  Sheila’s eyes followed Jo Trent as she removed the dark wrap, revealing the white uniform of her profession.

  Placing her things over a chair, the nurse turned to Sheila, her gaze studying her intently.

  “You need rest, or I shall have two patients,” the deep voice told her.

  At the sound of her voice Sheila started; then turning, she scrutinized its owner closely. Was there something about her that recalled Nicoli? True, her hair was not unlike Nicoli’s closely cropped head-but wasn’t there something else about Jo Trent that brought the woman she loved to her mind? Yes—but what was that elusive something?…

  *

  Jo Trent quietly and unobtrusively took over the care of Allison and a few days later, when Sheila’s play closed, found her accompanying them to the house Sheila had rented in the heart of the New England countryside.

  PART FOUR

  The Alden Place

  Do you think he has a chance?” Sheila whispered to Jo Trent as the nurse’s firm, capable hands guided the car along the winding road.

  Allison, sitting alone in the tonneau of the car, was dozing, apparently at ease.

  “He has, Miss Case, provided we watch him carefully at all times. As Doctor Harkness perhaps told you, in cases of this sort patients become desperate when denied the drug they are in the habit of taking. At such times they are apt to attempt to take their lives. However, you have nothing to fear from that score, for I promise you he will not have the opportunity.”

  Sheila looked at the strong features of the woman beside her—the determination of her chin—and somehow knew that Jo Trent would keep her word. Already she was beginning to depend on her, to feel that at last she had someone whom she could trust with her troubles. It was good to have a woman around her again to whom she could talk—for Sheila had made no close woman friends with whom she felt free to talk, or to lapse into silence as she saw fit. Only a few days had shown her that Jo Trent had a peculiar insight into her moods. She seemed to know the innermost workings of her mind—to know absolutely when Sheila wished to be alone and when she wished for companionship.

  Sheila continued to study the nurse’s face as they drove along. She was attractive, remarkably so, in a boyish sort of way. The breeze blew her short curly hair about, making her look like an urchin with a tousled head. Her severe dark suit with blouse open at the throat further enhanced the illusion of boyishness. When she spoke, even her voice was in keeping with her appearance, its low throaty quality making it soothing to Sheila’s ears.

  Allison scarcely spoke, although Jo and Sheila chatted most of the way. Sheila was surprised to learn that Jo had seen several of her performances in The Woman Alone, as well as a few of the play in which she had just appeared. She asked Jo why she had seen the same show several times, but Jo, instead of answering her question, simply said, “It is getting colder, and you should have something around your shoulders; remember, you must keep well if we are to win the fight we have ahead.”

  Sheila thanked her for the proffered wrap, and snuggling up in its warmth, tipped her lovely head back on the cushions.

  The sun was low on the horizon when Jo roused her. “We are nearly there, Miss Case, only about a mile or two beyond here, I’d say.”

  Sheila straightened up, and looking about, answered drowsily, “Yes, it can’t be over that. I see we have left the main road, so this lane we are on must lead directly to the house. I dare say Mrs. Mason will be waiting for us. You know I talked with her yesterday and told her we would arrive late this afternoon.”

  “You were fortunate in getting her, don’t you think?” questioned Jo. “From what you tell me, she is just the sort of housekeeper you will need.”

  “Yes, I think so, too. It seems that Mrs. Mason is part of the old family tradition. She has lived with the Aldens since Mrs. Alden came to the county as a bride. The rental agent gave me an interesting sketch of the family—comfortably wealthy, educated, county aristocrats—you know, the solid kind of people who make the backbone of New England. Mrs. Alden adored her husband and her one son. But she lost them both in an influenza epidemic, and for years she lived up here with just Mrs. Mason and her memories. But this winter she agreed to travel with a niece just recently widowed, and she decided to rent the house on condition that Mrs. Mason would stay on. It’s a lovely old colonial house, he said—white with blue-green shutters—you know the type: the kind of house that seems to invite you to live, and to lend grace to living.”

  “How interesting! I’ve never lived in a house with an atmosphere. I have always been an apartment dweller, and so far all my cases have been in the city. I’m glad for you that you have found such an ideal place—and I’m glad for myself that I’m to share it with you. It won’t be so lonesome these late winter days. There will be big open fireplaces, won’t there, and huge logs from our own woods?” Jo chattered animatedly, both from real interest and from a desire to raise Sheila’s spirits. Sheila responded to Jo
’s enthusiasm: “It almost succeeds in taking the curse off our banishment—I do love an open fire. Oh, here we are!”

  The gracious dignity of the old white house was visible through the trees, their gnarled branches casting grayish shadows on its snowy walls, while the last rays of the setting sun lightly brushed its roof with warm tones of crimson and gold.

  Sheila turned, her eyes coming to rest on Allison’s sleeping form, looking so pale and weak, then with a sigh of regret for having to waken him, she said softly, “Allison, dear, we are home.”

  As Allison slowly roused himself, Jo turned the car into the curving gravelled driveway and, bringing it to a standstill, blew the horn.

  A black and white setter asleep beside the door barked a warning; he jumped to his feet and scampered down the path to investigate the strangers whose arrival had so rudely disturbed his nap. His eyes were large and friendly. He stood for a moment gazing inquiringly at the occupants of the car. Who were these people who dared to enter his domain? His alert ears caught the sound of an opening door; quickly he bounded back along the driveway to meet the woman who had just emerged and inform her of the newcomers’ presence.

  Her voice was kindly when she spoke to the dog, who leaped up on her as she hurried to meet her new employers. “Down, Ring! It’s all right.”

  Apparently assured that everything was quite in order, the setter followed her toward the car, his plumy tail wagging a belated welcome.

  Mrs. Mason was an ample, motherly looking woman, with a genial smile. Her greeting was simple, warm and friendly.

  “I’m Mrs. Mason. I am so glad you have arrived safely, and before dark. I was beginning to worry; I thought perhaps you had missed the turn at the end of the lane.”

  Sheila alighted from the car, and crossing in front of it, extended her hand to the friendly woman before her.