by Lilyan Brock
“You were at your best tonight, Sheila,” she told her with pride, then continued teasingly, “I think I should go away more often if this is the effect my return has upon you.”
Sheila laughed happily and went about the details of changing into street clothes. Some few minutes later she walked toward Nicoli, linked her arm through hers and pulled her to her feet.
“Take me home, darling,” she said. “I want to be alone with you. It’s been so long.”
Nicoli’s lips brushed her cheek. “Too long, darling,” she murmured—“much too long.”
*
“Even the apartment feels that you’re back home, Nicoli—the very chairs have missed you.”
“And you?” Nicoli questioned as she lifted Sheila to her feet and walked with her to the sheltering cavern of their favorite divan.
Sheila rumpled Nicoli’s springy hair in sheer excess of spirits and answered playfully, “I have missed you a little bit, darling.” Then locking her arms around her neck she burst into tears, sobbing piteously, “Don’t ever leave me again— promise me! I’m lost when I’m out of your arms—say you won’t!”
Nicoli pressed the shaking figure closer. “I shan’t ever go away from you again,” she promised—“not ever.”
Sheila lifted her lovely head, her eyes met the serious, tender ones of the woman whose arms held her; her lips parted. “You’re mine, Nicoli, and I need you, more than I can ever tell you. I’ve been so miserable—” The delicate chin quivered, the full mouth trembled.
“Here—here!” Nicoli’s voice took on a mock sternness. “No more of that—I’m here now and here I’m going to stay. Besides, I’ve brought you something and I am anxious to see if you like it.”
Sheila straightened up quickly and inquired with childlike eagerness, “What is it, Nicoli? Where is it?”
Nicoli rose. “I’ll get it for you—just a minute.” Her straight form with its broad shoulders and slim hips disappeared in the direction of the bedroom. In a moment she returned carrying in her hands an intricately carved jade box which she extended to Sheila.
“Nicoli, it’s exquisite!” Sheila cried as she jumped to her feet. “Where did you find it?”
“I ran across it at one of the smaller shops in the Rue St. Honore. I thought it would be a lovely case for your jewelry—just about the right size, don’t you think?”
“It’s just too beautiful for words, darling—I’ll keep it always.”
As Nicoli gazed at Sheila’s enraptured face she little dreamed that one day her gift would come back to her.
*
As time went on they were happier than ever before, blissfully unaware that slowly a mighty force was gathering that would tear their lives from their foundations.
Broadway was beginning to talk. The gaunt ugly spectre of Gossip stalked the brightly lighted street, trailing slimy fingers dipped in the filth of rumor and scandal, leaving a viscous trail in its wake along the path it trod. Its fetid breath seeped into the minds of friends who struggled vainly to deny its presence and into the already corrupted brains of people who were only too willing and anxious to acknowledge its existence there and further its rank progress.
In a short time the habitues of the White Way were divided into two warring camps: those who fought to disclaim the malicious charges and those who offered what they contended was ample proof of their validity. The defensive faction pointed with pride to Nicoli’s position, her years of work unsullied by even an atom of scandal, to Sheila’s artistry and her exquisite femininity. “Is it not quite natural,” they asked, that these two should be close companions? Sheila Case is the finished product of Nicoli’s unbounded genius—hers is the love of a great artist for the masterpieces he has created.”
“Lies—all lies,” jeered the offensive. “Physical attraction—baseness—is the bond that holds them so firmly together. They belong to a group of people who have no acknowledged place and never will have because of the vileness of their natures. What can they know of love—they who do not even know the meaning of the word? Their sort should be stamped from the earth—eradicated completely—so that normal minds would not have to witness their degrading escapades.”
So the battle raged, while the insidious gossip gained momentum everywhere. In the night clubs, restaurants and theaters people talked. Actors whispered choice bits; stage hands passed them on to onlookers and they in turn to their friends.
Unsavoury fragments drifted to Sheila’s ears. What could she do? What must she do to protect Nicoli? She was sensitive, Sheila told herself, but not nearly so much so as Nicoli. How could she stand idly by and see her lose friends of years standing—see her lose caste among the people who now reverenced her name? See her outstanding independence of mind slip away—see her lose her most valued possession; her self-respect? And at last to see her marked by the world—a failure. How could she bear to know that it was she who had ruined her life—her career—and finally stripped her of everything her years of untiring effort had built up?
When that day should finally come, would her love be compensation enough for the great loss Nicoli would sustain? Could she, Sheila—would she—accept such a sacrifice? If she did, what surcease could she possibly find from the pain that would come when she gazed into Nicoli’s deep eyes and saw the hunted look and sorrow hidden there?
Hourly Sheila sought the answers to her questions; hourly one and only one solution came to her weary brain. Always she fought bravely to cloak her fears and mental turmoil with laughter and carefree chatter, yet ever she carried the burden of knowledge that sooner or later she must bow to the tyranny of public opinion and man-made conventions.
Nicoli too sensed the situation and tried desperately to conceal her own misgivings. Was this not the very reason, she asked herself, that for years she had gone on alone, steeling herself against the unusual desires of her heart—starving her inner being of the love that she knew was so essential to its happiness—working hours on end in order to still, through sheer weariness, the pleading cry within her? Had she not always known that she could not bear the onslaught of public opinion? Not against herself—she would not let that matter—but how could she tolerate having people who could not hope to comprehend, make of their love a cheap, tawdry thing? How could she reconcile herself to the coarse references made to that love by persons wholly unsuited by nature to grasp even in the slightest degree its true meaning? They deemed it unnatural, and so it was to them, unnatural—but deeper and sweeter for the very nature of its unnaturalness, and God-given to the few to whom He had given understanding. Yet, notwithstanding her apprehension, Nicoli thanked Him fervently in her dark hours for His heavenly gift and determined anew each day never to relinquish the untold joys and peace of Sheila’s love, no matter what the world might demand in payment. She would give willingly to the unseeing masses anything they might demand save Sheila and her love for her. These she would keep forever locked safely away in the innermost recesses of her heart, sheltering them always—protecting them ever.
*
Weeks passed with Nicoli and Sheila both trying bravely to hide from each other the disturbing knowledge that had become such a burden. They became more and more retiring. Sheila pleading fatigue and Nicoli devoting the hours away from her office to her writing: neither of them wished to subject themselves to the curious, wondering gaze of people who still strove to meet them.
It was late in May when Nicoli gave the show the two weeks’ notice that announced its closing.
In a few weeks most of the legitimate houses along Broadway would be in darkness for the summer months; the warehouses would begin to fill, as wardrobe and scenery were carefully stored away. Theatrical offices would be quiet until August when the call for performers would again be heard. Actors who were affluent at the close of the season would be leaving New York for vacations and much needed rest; others not so fortunate would congregate in the various clubs and on the streets talking of the break that was sure to come when t
he new season should open, while in the meantime they spent sparingly of the meager savings that were almost certain to have vanished before rehearsals should begin again.
Nicoli and Sheila were both tired after the gruelling months of work, and the closing night found them eager for the rest the following weeks would yield. It would seem a real treat to have every evening free to lounge about their apartment.
It was comfortable, delightfully so, Sheila thought, the first evening she was at liberty to enjoy it. The lights were so soothing, so mellow, compared to the bright searching lights of the theater. Yes, it would be nice to be lazy, if only… Nicoli’s words interrupted the disturbing thought.
“I’ve been thinking, Sheila, that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to rest a few days before we try to make any plans for a vacation. In that way I can finish up at the office and you’ll be feeling better to go away.”
“That’s perfect, darling. I’m too tired now even to think about where I’d like to go.” Sheila’s voice, usually resonant, sounded hollow. Why must Nicoli speak of their trip together, when her heart was so torn by indecision? Aloud she continued:
“I think I’ll shop tomorrow, Nicoli—it’s been so long since I’ve had time for that sort of thing—and then I’ll have all that behind me, with nothing to do but rest and wait for you to come home at night.”
“Too tired to do a little shopping for me, darling, while you are at it? You know me—the only time I care about shopping is when I am buying something for you.”
“Of course I am not too tired for that, Nicoli,” Sheila answered reproachfully. “I’d love it.”
Later in the evening Sheila lay stretched out lazily on the sofa with Nicoli reclining on the luxurious fur rug beside her. Her graceful fingers wandered lightly through Nicoli’s hair as they listened to the soothing tones of the radio. The throbbing notes of a mighty organ filled the room—the organist was playing Always.
Sheila’s hand pulled Nicoli’s dark head closer. “Darling,” she said softly, “I want you to know what I’ve been thinking just now.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” Nicoli looked up.
“Well…” Sheila hesitated. “I know it sounds flowery, but I’ve been thinking that no matter what the years may bring to us, and no matter how things may seem, I want you to believe and know that I’m always yours, Nicoli—that I’ll always be loving you and wanting you—” her voice dropped to a fervent murmur—“always, my lover, always.”
Nicoli looked long into Sheila’s earnest eyes. “I’ve always known you were completely mine, darling. You could never be anything else, any more than that song could ever belong to anyone other than you in my mind. I never hear it without remembering the way you sang it that first time I saw you. I think I must have loved you even then…” The words trailed off, lost in the enveloping warmth of Sheila’s kiss.
*
The following night Nicoli came home early. All day long she had heard no word from Sheila. She had called the apartment twice during the day, but then she remembered that Sheila was shopping. Perhaps she had been too tired to come by the office as she had so often done before.
“How silly for me to feel that something is out of order,” she told herself shortly. “She is not a child who has to give an account of every moment of her day.”
She rang the bell to their apartment. Sheila was not yet home. She took her key from her bag and unlocked the door.
On the floor just inside the door lay a letter addressed in Sheila’s familiar handwriting. A nameless fear clutched her. Hastily she tore the letter open, her eyes flashing across the pages… eyes that gradually dimmed with tears as she read the words that were forever to remain in her heart:
“My darling—
“I need not try to tell you how cruelly difficult it is for me to write this. You must know what you mean to me, and how I feel. I have known for months that although you love me dearly you have been unhappy—unhappy because of outside influences over which you and I have no power.
“You are fine and good, my sweetheart, and it is unfair that you should suffer the pain of our being the subject of so much discussion. I know that you have tried desperately not to worry, but in spite of your efforts you have worried. You cannot, must not be allowed to go on trying to fight a losing battle, one from which neither you nor I can hope to emerge victorious.
“Our love is not an accepted one, darling, and sooner or later the constant onslaught will have its deadly effect, and it will become torn and broken. I could not bear that, my Nicoli —it is too perfect, and so I choose rather to keep it always in my heart as it now is even though many miles and many years may separate us, and many tears mark their passage. I love you, my own, and always will be
Your Sheila.”
*
Months passed… months of desperate silence for Nicoli; days and weeks of torture and effort to keep herself from the endeavor to find Sheila and implore her to return; nights when in her agony she cried out to God asking Him to ease the sorrow and longing in her heart; sinking into the furthermost depths of grief—struggling vainly to erase from the impressionable canvas of her memory the exquisite picture of her life with Sheila.
Yet… in her mind she was ever conscious that Sheila had been right. It was best to sacrifice their love now that it might live eternally in its entirety, unsullied by further contact with a ruthless world. Yes, it was best so—to let it go while it was yet perfect; to keep it always enshrined in their hearts away from human power to harm its gloriousness; to protect it ever from the fires that eventually would destroy it and reduce it to ashes.
PART THREE
Allison Graham
“For passion ebbs and passion flows,
But under every new caress
The riven heart more keenly knows
Its own inviolate faithfulness.” —Yasmini—India’s Love Lyrics
When Sheila left Nicoli she went to a small town upstate where she felt certain she would not be known, there to think and search for some possible way out of the difficult situation that confronted her.
Upon her arrival she took rooms at a picturesque hotel nestled away in a valley. All around her were peace and quiet, yet the very stillness, the very peace of it, only served to magnify the unrest in her troubled mind.
She walked far into the hills that first day thinking, always thinking, of the decision she knew she must abide by. It wasn’t fair to Nicoli, she told herself again, to go on, with people constantly discussing them and their lives together. She couldn’t bear to see Nicoli trying bravely to disregard the criticisms of the public—their public that had made them both so successful—nor could she let them ruin the only thing she had ever found that completely filled her life.
Why should they be allowed to destroy it by their thoughtless gossip who couldn’t possibly understand whereof they gossiped? How could they hope to know the completeness of that love—the sheer ecstasy and the wild joys of it, the spiritual beauty and the tender happiness of it?
How could they in their complacent, prosaic normality understand or be tolerant of those who dared to be different, who must be different because they had been flung willy-nilly into a world of standards without being themselves fashioned according to those same standards?
It was as though they must become a part of life’s sideshow, the freaks who apparently did not care; in reality, a sideshow filled with torn and twisted spirits who struggle to conform, to delve into the mystery of their being, all the while battering their lives and their loves against an impregnable wall of convention, praying that the day might come when they will no longer be pointed out or shunned, ostracized by a society which draws aside its skirts that it may not touch in passing the denizens of a twilight world.
A biased, prejudiced world would deprive them of everything necessary for their happiness, condemning them for the very depth and sensitiveness of their natures. It would tear down all they could build up, arrogating the right to destroy
that of which it did not approve. The old truism that a person likes only that which he knows and understands came to Sheila’s mind afresh. She could not gainsay it: she was forced to admit that she was powerless to change a convention-bound world—that she must give up Nicoli. Far better that than to tear her down from the high position she had made for herself in the world of the theater; better a thousand times that she go away, leaving Nicoli her self-respect, the principles for which she had so many years fought, and the respect of her fellows who would soon forget in their admiration for her success any departure from the normal.
Nicoli was creative; she could sublimate her emotions in her work. She would be lonely, yes; she would be hurt; she would be lost during the cruel period of adjustment—but in the end, she would be… perhaps even grateful. Sheila winced; but she told herself with finality that it was better so, better that she had written the letter bidding farewell to all that mattered to her—loving it so much that she chose to destroy it herself rather than see it dragged down by unfriendly hands from the pinnacle upon which she had placed it.
There followed weeks of aimless wandering, with ever the temptation to go back, just for an hour—until Sheila finally realized that she must set a great distance between herself and the one thing she loved. The desire to fly back grew more and more unbearable, and she feared that one day, weakened by insatiable longing, she might yield to that temptation. She did not care where she went; the only important consideration was that it must be far, too far for her to be able to return easily. The solution seemed to be a round-the-world cruise. She booked passage with the idea of lingering wherever her wavering fancy might dictate; after all, why plan now?
Motion, change, adventure—recourse to sophistication which had once been wholly lost in love; that seemed the only refuge.
*
On the outward voyage Sheila paced the decks at night as they stretched white and gleaming before her in the moonlight. Moonlight that carried her back to the nights spent close to Nicoli when they had driven along roads bathed in its pale rays; or had sat entwined in each other’s arms looking out over the river that was visible from their apartment. Unforgettable nights beneath the stars and moon when they had vowed ever to belong each to the other and forever to keep their love sacred and true.
