Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1924)

After all, Leda O'Neil's tastes had been formed and controlled almost entirely by motion pictures. Like Cleveland Brown himself, she was a product of them. The pale grey walls, so palely grey that they were only a shade warmer than white. The black velvet curtains, somber in their long, straight lines. And then the odd, startling, bizarre splashes of color all about. In the fantastic cushions heaped about the floor. The transparent glass bowls and vivid potteries filled with (lowers. The gleaming lamps and the odd, futuristic pictures on the walls. Its effect was almost violent, like some weird piece of Oriental music, stirring the senses and deadening the intellect. His feet hesitated on the plain, black velvet carpet. A panic, almost a premonition, drew him back, as surely as the picture of Leda O'Neil, on the black velvet couch in the middle of the room, drew him on. He had never seen anyone in his life who could lie so still, so deliciously, lazily still. As though she never wanted to move again and yet pulsing and throbbing with life in her stillness. The soft glow of the lamps had given the long, white thing she wore the sheen of a pearl, like her skin'. She lay on her side, with knee drawn up against her body, and one bare arm curved under her head. The tiny, glowing, perfume lamp on the table beside her filled the air with that heavy scent he knew so well. The pitiful look of a great desire that is only desire swept Cleveland Brown's face. His eyes hungered shyly, hotly, over the lovely thing on the black velvet couch, pleading and yet afraid. Agony imprisoned him. An agony of longing and painful timidity. Every step became a separate torture that must be endured. He knelt down on one of the purple cushions at her side. For a moment he thought she was asleep. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him, unsmilingly, steadily, almost accusingly. His hand went out hungrily, gently, and touched her hair. And then he had her in his arms. Holding her with a young madness that was terrible. Kissing her with hot, untaught, almost brutal kisses that fell on her lips and her eyes and her hair and her long, white throat. He held her against him, as a man might hold a panacea that would cure some great and horrible pain. Touched her with his hands and at last hid his face against her breast, sobbing like a child. Leda O'Neil held him close, sweetly, almost maternally close. "I love you, 1 love you," he said, and knew no ornaments with which to embellish the great words his lips had never said before. "I love you." She smiled, a luxurious, swooning smile, because she could soothe this desperate, painful need. The loveliness of her that had swept a world to her feet, she seemed to pour out upon him, like a scented oil, to soothe and heal the heat of his young, violent passion. She drew him closer, until they held each other as two people might who see death just around the comer. Held him close and hard and sweet, until they were wrapped in some living flame that sealed them together and away from all the world. Leda O'Neil was twenty-live. An Italian mother and an Irish father had combined to produce in her something that, on the screen, had the fascination of both races. And, off the screen, most of their faults. Her popularity was based entirely upon her beauty. A beauty that possessed both sex appeal and distinction. Her stardom had nothing whatever to do with acting. And a great many men had loved her, not wisely but too well. There is no explanation for a Leda 54 That which has gone before (CLEVELAND BROWN, the famous ^-^ screen comedian, was at heart only a small town boy, grown older. A small town boy with a distrust that amounted almost to a tear — of all women This feeling of his, however, did not keep him from being the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood, for his past had been blameless, and he paid an income tax that reached the quarter million mark. Many women tried to insinuate themselves into his life, but it was all wasted energy until Ray Connable — an ex-Follies girl, and an utter stranger to Cleve — announced their engagement. The announcement appeared in the papers, and the comedian planned to deny it, until he discovered that the Connable girl was at the end ot her rope — that she needed publicity in order to get a job. So he played the game with her — dancing, dining, almost, at times, losing his head. Though he told his little leading lady, Janice Reed, that the engagement meant nothing, there's no telling what might have happened if Leda O'Neil — alluring, lovely, and quite intoxicated hadn't strayed across his path. Atter his car had nearly run her down, Cleve who was taking Ray home from the Plantation Club — was forced to become Leda's escort, also. Entering liis car -he cuddled down against him and, with her coming, a new era dawned in the lite ot Cleveland Brown. O'Neil. Hollywood attempted none. In some measure, she was a product of its sudden riches, its tremendous flatteries, its essential familiarity and lack of restraint. But not altogether. Anywhere. Leda O'Xeil would have been the thing she was. Only she would probably have been forced to add the final sin of hypocrisy. Her theory of living was exceedingly simple. She earned more money than most men. She paid a large income tax to her government. She supported civic and business schemes with her name and her money. Charity diives and charily organizations depended upon her time and again, not only for large donations but for all sorts of personal appearance-, speeches and appeals. She supported her family well and decently, and met her financial obligations promptly. Therefore, since she fulfilled the duties of a rich man and a prominent citizen, she assumed that she had the right to enjoy the privileges that most of them took unquestioned. She did not choose to marry, because she preferred her freedom. So, she argued, if she took the pleasures of life where she found them, she was harming no one. No one had any claim upon her. No one had any right to say you shall or you shall not to Leda O'Neil. Except Leda O'Neil herself. And it never occurred to her that she had any obUgation to herself. She was wholely independent. She owed her success to nothing except the gifts the gods had bestowed and her own ceaseless endeavors. The Latin languor that dominated her in her lighter moments was entirely absent in connection with her work. She worked like a dog. There was no star in any studio who worked harder or more diligently or more honestly than Leda. And there was no girl in Hollywood who was down and out. but might come to Leda O'Neil and find an open house and an open hand. She had also the disposition of an angel. No one ever saw her cross. She didn't know the meaning of the word temperament. She had a marvellous, lazy, ever-present good humor and a fund of easy kindness. She could endure hardships for herself without a whimper, could work twenty-four hours on end, or under the most miserable conditions of place and weather, and come up smiling and unruffled. She could not bear to hurt anyone's feelings and her democracy around the studio had won her the love of every grip, electrician and cameraman on the lot. " No" was a word not in her limited vocabulary. That was Leda O'Neil. Her weaknesses corresponded with her desire to please, her inability to give pain. She loved love. The man-woman game fascinated her. Every littlest phase had its thrills and its amusements. Leda could be everything in the world to a man except his friend. Give him everything except fidelity. Tell him everything except the truth. Cleveland Brown was a new sensation to Leda. That there could be— in Hollywood— in the Twentieth Century — a man like Cleveland Brown, seemed to her inconceivable. He was like a boy— like some young knight. His innocence, his trust, his adoration were new and pleasant things to her. Long, long ago Leda had learned the ancient truth that, to a woman who plays the game, there are only iwo kinds of men who are worth while. The men who know everything and the men who knownothing. Cleveland Brown knew nothing more consistently than anyone she had ever met. And he was Cleveland Brown. Even a Leda O'Neil might be proud to exhibit Cleveland Brown [ CONTINUED ON PAGE 103 ]