by Lilyan Brock
The large room which the jovial proprietor assigned to them was at the front of the house, overlooking the lake. He had been profuse in his congratulations to Philip and in his praises of his bride. No, there weren’t any other guests, he told them. The last party of fishermen had left the previous day—they would be quite alone. He had winked goodnaturedly at Philip.
After a filling meal of wholesome home-cooked food they walked out onto the wide porch which extended the full length of Cliff Lodge. Stretched out in comfortable chairs they smoked and talked of their plans for the morrow. It was decided they would walk and Philip would take his rod and reel along in case the urge to cast in one of the many streams should present itself.
Wearied at last by the drive and the soothing air, they rose. Philip’s arm stole about Sheila’s shoulders as they walked to the door.
“Bed time for you, sleepy head—you’re almost asleep now, and in another minute I shall have to carry you upstairs.”
“I am a little tired, dear,” Sheila agreed. “I didn’t realize it before, though; it’s been so pleasant out here.”
Again the thoughts of the night and its possible happenings loomed before her. Philip’s next words reassured her:
“You’re going to sleep, young lady.” Then—“Even though I would like to keep you awake again for hours telling you how much I love you.”
The burden of fear lifted, her mind grew easier as together they climbed the stairs to their room.
*
Morning: wispy shreds of mist capping the trees sombre against the early morning sky.
Sheila awoke refreshed by a sound sleep. From the bath came sounds of splashing water and Philip’s happy voice humming a popular melody. She stretched luxuriously beneath the cool white sheets and fleecy woolen blankets. The pangs of appetite asserted themselves; reluctantly she threw back the covers and rose to her feet, to dress and answer their urging call. Philip’s inquiring voice reached her ears:
“Awake, darling?”
“Yes, dear—I’m up,” Sheila called from her place by the window where she had been lost in the wonders of the colorful scenery.
“Okay—coming right out. We’ll eat and then get started. I’ve a million things to show you.”
Breakfast over; they left the inn to follow one of the paths leading into the hills. The sun was shining brightly from an unclouded sky. How delicious the crisp morning air; how awe-inspiring the mountains and frowning cliffs not far distant.
Philip, walking briskly along beside Sheila, lunch basket and fishing tackle in hand, talked merrily of past visits at the Lodge, voicing envy of the fortunate ones who could come there and stay, unmindful of business.
Sheila listened to the glowing accounts of other visits and responded with enthusiasm when Philip singled out some spot especially dear in his memories.
On they walked, the ascent so gradual as not to tire them. Tiny mountain streams insinuated their way through ravines which must have been riven by the mighty forces of long-forgotten glaciers, their crystal waters tumbling downward over rocky beds. An occasional wary trout, silvery in the sun, leaping in the eddies of the stream, offered sport to the carefree man as they trudged upward.
The sun was high in the heavens when they stopped at last for lunch. A boulder on which clung tufts of lichens served as their table. Gnarled old balsams, the very embodiment of sturdiness and stability, screened the spot from the glare of the noonday sun. Sheila busied herself unpacking the basket while Philip went for water from a tiny spring near by. As they sat eating, Sheila’s eyes drank in the beauty around her. At last she said:
“You’ve no idea, Phil, what a thrill I’m getting from all this. You see, this is the first time I’ve ever really been a part of the woods and mountains. Before they’ve always been such fleeting things—shall we say… seen for the moment from the windows of trains. I have never really walked in them before.”
“Well, now that I know you like it, darling, we’ll come here every opportunity we get,” Philip promised. “Perhaps when we close we can make it up here for a few days anyway.”
“I’d love it! Only, then you must teach me to fish; there must be a great kick to that. Your eyes fairly glittered when they saw that trout a while ago.”
“Speaking of trout—as soon as we’re finished we’ll start back. I intend to try for a few in that stream below—looks likely. Who knows? Maybe I’ll catch our dinner!”
Sheila finished tucking the red and white cloth over the remnants of their lunch. The basket would be much lighter now: their appetites had been keen.
Philip’s hands claimed her own. He drew her close.
“I love you so, Sheila—it’s perfect having you here to share all this with me. I wouldn’t take anything for it.”
The words died out. His mouth came to rest on hers; the unbelievable warmth burned her lips. For a long moment she seemed lost in the heat of it; then—blessed freedom.
At last, the sheltered stream skirted by a belt of tall graceful trees. Sheila sank to the ground somewhat weary from the downward journey. They had walked more rapidly in order to spend more time snaring the crafty denizens of the clear blue waters. The soft carpet of moss made an ideal couch upon which to rest while Philip skillfully assembled his fishing rod. Ready, he started down to the water’s edge, followed by Sheila. Soon the singing line broke the stillness as Philip deftly cast into the quiet waters. Sheila watched, fascinated. The gaily colored lure disappeared—a hungry trout had hit it. The line tightened. The reel hummed merrily as Philip re-wound the silken cord—the shimmering body of a mountain trout broke the water. Philip swung the line and its prize behind the rock on which he was standing and onto the grassy shore. Sheila’s eyes danced with excitement as Philip removed the fish.
“He’s a good sized fellow,” he remarked with satisfaction. “A couple more like him and we’ll have enough for our dinner. We’ll get them cooked at the Lodge.”
“Grand!” from Sheila. “Only I think I should be made to catch my share if I’m to eat.”
Philip laughed at Sheila’s interest. “It’s a bargain. The next strike I get, you pull him in.”
Shortly the line cutting through the water announced the capture of another speckled beauty. Sheila’s eager fingers grasped the handle of the reel and turned it feverishly.
“Better let me land him, darling,” Phil suggested as the line shortened.
Sheila relinquished her hold while Philip’s experienced hands quickly brought their second captive safely to rest beside the first.
In an hour’s time they once again resumed their path homeward; a string of glistening trout hung from Philip’s hand. Delightfully tired, they reached the inn a short while before sundown.
The day’s excursion had been a most gratifying one to Sheila. The comradeship attending it had brought to mind the days when together they had knocked about New York—pals —nothing more. Snooping about in odd corners of the city, lunching together or seeing the latest movies. Why hadn’t she been born a man, she asked herself, so her pleasant and satisfying relationship with Philip might have continued on throughout their lives? Why instead must she be faced with the problem of submission? Why must she go on day after day creating the illusion of giving all of herself? Would the time ever come when, awakened at last, she would know the full meaning of love? If so, when? Who would it be that would rouse her sleeping senses? Where?
*
Sheila and Philip were seated in one of the large rustic swings on the broad porch. After their evening meal they had gone to sit there to enjoy for the last time the quietude. Tomorrow they would be leaving; early morning would find them speeding back to New York—only tonight remained. Tomorrow their walks into the mountains, their hours spent fishing would be past—thenceforth they would live only in memories.
Philip rose to his feet. “Let’s go for a walk, Sheila.”
“I’d love to. Tomorrow night, you know, we’ll be on the train miles away from here.”<
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It was a glorious autumn night; the sky was clear and shone deep blue in the starlight that was reflected by teeming brilliant stars. The air was pungent with the winey odor of harvest, and somewhere in the distance an owl voiced his mournful cry, which echoed and re-echoed eerily through the trees beyond. With arms clasped about each other they strolled out into the magic night, then stopping, turned their eyes heavenward. A full yellow moon shone, its lambent flame illuminating the broad spaces before them, silhouetting the mountains and trees against the darkly blue sky—dim, hushed aisles of trees, cathedral-like in their lofty stillness, lifting their spires to lose themselves in a starry heaven. Somewhere close by, the lazy little hamlet lay sleeping peacefully beneath its heavenly blanket.
Tired, they turned to go back. Philip was struck by the peculiar luminous quality of Sheila’s face there in the half-light. For a fleeting moment she appeared ethereal and truly a part of the night. The folds of her soft gown and wrap fluttered in the fitful autumn breeze, and Philip, looking at her, thought she was as nearly an angel as he would ever see on this earth. She seemed of the world a thing apart. To possess all of her love and her lithe body had been his dream—a dream now realized. There was no hint of the doubt that was slowly to creep into his heart in the weeks to come, no suggestion that he would become aware of possessing only a portion of what he now deemed completely his own.
*
LaSalle Street Station, Chicago.
Sheila and Philip made their way through the crowds of arriving and departing passengers to a cab outside. The redcap deposited their luggage, received his tip; the driver turned inquiringly “Where to, sir?”
“The Palmer House,” Philip directed. Then to Sheila, “Adele and Marvin are stopping there; I thought it would be nice to be with them.”
“They’re a real couple,” Sheila replied, “and a clever dance team. It’s a shame they haven’t a better spot in the show and more opportunity to show what they really can do.”
“Marvin was telling me in New York that Adele had a marvelous opportunity to be featured but she turned it down —refused to work without him.”
Sheila looked thoughtful. “They’re so in love, Phil; I don’t blame her.”
“Yes, but darling, it isn’t fair to hold her back—she’s deucedly clever.” Philip went on seriously, “I wouldn’t be selfish enough to let you sacrifice a real chance for me, even if I do love you better than anything in the world.”
Sheila laughed. “Well, we won’t worry about that now; I may never get the big break.”
“Reservations for Mr. and Mrs. Philip Rowan,” Philip proudly told the room clerk at the Palmer House a few minutes later.
Upstairs in their room, after refreshing baths, they lounged about until it should be time to go to the theater. General rehearsal was only a few hours away—then the opening that night.
It would seem good, Sheila reflected, to get back into the old routine again. Cliff Lodge had been lovely, but the call to work was strong now.
She lay thinking.
There was so much to be done after rehearsal… so many little things, she reminded herself drowsily… she must not… forget to…
Philip’s kiss awakened her. “Better get up, dear—we’ve just about time to get dressed and make rehearsal.” Sheila stretched lazily, then reluctantly rose.
*
Back stage at the Apollo preparations were going forward for the performance that evening. The company was already gathered on the stage and in the wings when Sheila and Philip appeared. Gay, friendly greetings for Sheila—firm handclasps for Philip—good natured kidding for both of them —then silence: rehearsal had begun.
Over at last, there still remained the checking of wardrobe for any possible repairs and the business of getting settled in a new dressing room.
Philip finished and departed for the hotel. Sheila rushed about Chicago’s busy Loop, pushing her way through the scurrying crowds that thronged State Street, endeavoring to make last-minute purchases of small articles which always seem to become essential at the opening of a show. Finally, at four o’clock she returned to the hotel.
Philip was resting comfortably on the bed reading the advance notices of the show in one of the papers.
As she entered, he rose quickly to his feet, and going to her, took her in his arms. “I’ve missed you horribly! I thought you would never come back. Did you get everything you needed for tonight?”
“Yes, darling, and I’m exhausted. Just before I left the theater the last time I heard that we had a sell-out for tonight.”
“I know—I’ve been reading the house notices. They claim the advance sale has been tremendous.”
The show opened with the theater filled to capacity, with one of the most enthusiastic audiences of the season.
Weeks sped by. Sheila appeared happy with Philip, while at the theater her popularity grew nightly. Yet, notwithstanding the gay, busy rush, away from the footlights she seemed once again to lapse into her old state of yearning and loneliness. The thread that thus far had outwardly conformed to the rest of the pattern was definitely beginning to twist and warp.
It was during the last week of the Chicago engagement that Sheila heard of a new play to be placed in rehearsal in New York that fall. Friends in the company with her stressed the fact that the story, from what they had heard, seemed made for her, and besides, they knew she had always wanted to do a play—something heavier than the frothy musical comedy roles in which she was usually cast, something in which she could use the great emotional work she was capable of doing.
*
Philip sat talking earnestly to Sheila at a quiet corner table in a small cafe near the theater.
“But darling, don’t you see? This is the big chance you and I have talked about. You should at least interview Nicoli about the role—it’s foolish not to. Don’t you see, Sheila,” Philip argued. “This is a marvelous opportunity for you to do something big—something you’ve always wanted to do. I simply will not stand for your sacrificing yourself because of me. Think of it, Sheila; you’d be a huge success in a play, and I’d be so proud of you. You must at least try, in fairness to me— I want you to.”
“But Phil—” Sheila voiced her protest—“suppose I should be fortunate enough to sign for it. We’d be separated a whole season, and that wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Nonsense! I should probably be playing right in New York in something else and the only time we should be separated would be during performances.”
Sheila sat thinking. She did so want at least to make an effort to get the part. A play of Nicoli’s was the goal a great many actors and actresses set for themselves. Many an unknown had risen to stardom due to her clever lines and brilliant direction. Yes, she decided, she would arrange an appointment as soon as they arrived back in New York. She announced her intentions.
Philip received her decision with a smile of satisfaction.
*
Nicoli: a woman outstanding in her place on Broadway; a woman whose plays in previous years had enjoyed tremendous successes and upon whom critics showered praise not only for her ability to write but for the genius with which she directed her pieces. In the annals of the theater she occupied a unique place: there had never before been such a woman. Her writings seemed to sound the very depths of the soul of humanity.
Sheila was nervous about her first meeting with this great personage, and so carefully and painstakingly groomed herself for that hour when she was to see her. Philip thought she had never looked more beautiful, more appealing or more glamorous than when she came into the living room of their suite where he was sitting reading. Smartly gowned in a brown street frock and tight fitting brown hat, her blonde loveliness was almost dazzling. She was almost too perfect to be anything except a beautiful picture. Philip, gazing at her, was more keenly conscious than ever of the magnetism that emanated from her always. Her statuesque figure made her outstanding even in the crowds that thronged Broadway.
/> Sheila glanced at her watch. “I’m leaving now, Phil—wish me luck!”
“I do, darling, all the luck in the world. I’ll be waiting here, so come back as quickly as possible and tell me what happens.”
“I will,” Sheila promised. The door closed behind her retreating figure.
Her footsteps were light as they rose and fell on the deep carpet of the corridor. Her heart sang as the elevator bore her downward. She—Sheila Case—actually had an appointment with the great Nicoli.
It was almost unbelievable. She recalled her conversation with Nicoli’s secretary. No, the part had not been filled. Nicoli would be glad to see her and talk with her. She was already familiar with her work.
One—two—three blocks. Sheila turned into the entrance of the building that housed Nicoli’s offices. Up—up the elevator car carried her. The door of the cage closed; the car started its descent.
Sheila stood facing a large glass door. On it she read “Nicoli.” She opened her bag and produced a mirror. She studied her reflection in it a moment, gave her hair a final pat or two, then, satisfied, returned the glass to its place. Her hand grasped the doorknob and turned it.
A girl at the switchboard looked up.
“I’m Sheila Case,” she told the girl. “I have an appointment with Nicoli.” To herself her voice sounded breathless.
The girl turned back to the board. “Miss Case is here to see you. Yes, I’ll send her right in. Nicoli will see you now, Miss Case. First door to the left.”
Sheila passed through the little gate beside the girl and into the hall beyond. Why was she so nervous? she asked herself. Where was her usual composure? She shook herself slightly, then opened the door marked “Private” and walked in.
