Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1941)

"I believe so," he answered unexpectedly. "I think that's the reason she loves him so. . . . You see, a little while after we were married, Helene and I were in an automobile accident. Afterwards — the doctors told us she could never have a child." His mouth twisted, and he added half-consciously, "And now — if anything should happen to Johnny — " His tone, more than his words, frightened Rose. "If anything should happen? What do you mean?" "Johnny's very ill, Rose. I'm glad you came in. I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid." Her baby was ill! From somewhere, far back in the faith she had tried to abandon, the conviction came to Rose that here was her punishment — her punishment for everything. "You've got to let me see him!" she said tensely. "You've got to!" "Of course" he said in utter submission. LATE that night she was still in ■ Charles Cunningham's home. Upstairs a nurse was with Johnny; the doctor had just gone. There was nothing he could do, he'd said in a voice nicely balanced between cheerfulness and gravity, until morning. The situation was bad, yes — but not hopeless by any means. Another twenty-four hours should tell. A fire burned in the library grate. On one side of the hearth sat Charles and Helene Cunningham, on the other, Rose. In the silence, she studied the woman Charles had married: slight, pale, with an inner rather than an outer beauty. Seeing Helene explained so much that she had not understood this afternoon — Charles' new humility, the sorrow in his eyes, his willingness to let her see the baby. She saw the love that existed between them, and felt abashed, for it was not the tawdry, physical thing she had once thought was love. It was, instead, something that had purified Charles and brought out all the decency he had kept buried beneath a shell of selfishness. "If he — when he gets well again," Charles had said to her as they left the nursery, "you must take him back. Helene thinks so too — we've talked it over, and we know it was wrong of us to take him from you. Helene didn't understand — she didn't know you, and she thought it was my right and — and duty to have Johnny with me, since we could never have a child of our own. She didn't know about the Child Welfare business. It was cruel. I didn't realize what I was doing." And it would be cruel, Rose realized, to take the child away from this gentle, sweet-faced woman who had grown to love him. Across the hearth she saw Helene Cunningham's hand steal into her husband's, and a glance of affection and understanding pass between them, and she knew that the other woman, for all her passivity and deceptive gentleness, was stronger than she. It would not really be cruel to take Johnny from Helene, because Helene, in her strength, recognized and accepted the necessity of losing him. Rose struggled to her feet. "I'd better be starting home — Ma'll be wondering what's become of me. I'll stop in first thing in the morning — " "Wouldn't you like to stay here?" Mrs. Cunningham asked. "You could telephone your mother, and in the morning you'll be right JANUARY, 1941 here to see the doctor when he arrives." "Why — yes, thank you," Rose said awkwardly after a moment's hesitation. Emotion had taken its toll; suddenly she was more exhausted than she'd thought. After she had telephoned, they showed her to a room, and almost at once she was asleep — to be awakened, in the morning, by Helene's soft voice: "The doctor is here, Rose. And Johnny is much better. If everything goes well, you'll be able to take him away in a week or ten days." Abruptly, Rose felt tears in her eyes — she, who had prided herself that she never cried! That fall Ellis Smith returned to Five Points, resuming occupation of his studio-bedroom in the tenement near Dr. Ruthledge's church. He saw a few people: Fredrika Lang, Mary, Dr. Ruthledge, Rose Kransky; and told them, quite casually, where he had been. For several months, he said, he'd lived in San Francisco, where he had met and come to know Myrna Reynolds — the Torchy who was Ned Holden's wife. He added that Torchy had signed a contract with The Silver Pheasant, an uptown night club, and would soon come to the city to appear there. "And She was young, beautiful, wealthy — but still she was GIRL ALONE Read radio's romantic story of Patricia Rogers, who found that great wealth can be a prison Beginning soon in RADIO MIRROR it's in her contract," he said, "that they can bill her as Mrs. Ned Holden." Fredrika, when she heard it, said, "Ned will hate that." Ellis shrugged. "I can't get very excited over what Ned will or won't hate. He still refuses to see you, Fredrika?" "He doesn't precisely refuse," the thin, tired-looking woman said. "I've never tried to see him. When he's ready, he'll come to me." "How can you let him hurt you so! And Myrna — Torchy — she's just as bad. She insists on clinging to him, no matter how badly he treats her. If you could have seen her, Fredrika! There's only one reason she wanted to be a success, and to learn how to dress and talk. She called it learning to be 'a lady,' and asked me to help her. I did as she asked, not even knowing whether or not I should. It was pitiful, because somehow she had the notion that if she could be 'a lady' she'd win Ned's love — his real love this time. That's why it was such a shock when he wrote asking her for a divorce — and later, when he saw her and apparently didn't care because her manners and diction were better, or that she was a successful night club singer. It didn't impress him a bit. All he was interested in was the divorce. So, terribly disap pointed, she turned on him and told him he couldn't have one. . . ." Fredrika asked quietly, "And now she's coming here, to try to get him back?" "I don't know. I think she only wants to be near him, blindly, without any definite plan." "And you, Ellis?" "I?" he laughed shortly. "Oh, I'm back because Torchy's coming back. I'm working on a portrait of her." Torchy's debut at The Silver Pheasant was heralded with advertisements in the papers and with glaring billboards around town. "Myrna Reynolds — Mrs. Ned Holden," the sign read. "Direct from a triumphant season at the San Francisco Fair." Ned saw his wife's name, her face, wherever he turned. His impulse was to run away from every such reminder; instead, he asked Mary to go with him to Torchy's opening night. She searched his face questioningly. "But Ned — are you sure you want to? Won't it be terribly embarrassing?" "Of course I don't want to — and of course it will be embarrassing," he answered, smiling. "But I'm through being afraid, I told you. I'm going to act as if Torchy and I had reached an understanding — in other words, I'm going to act normally. Certainly it's normal for The Spectator to attend a night club opening." Mary nodded reluctant agreement, and together they went to The Silver Pheasant. The place was crowded, noisy and smoky. Then the lights dimmed and a bright ray fell upon a girl who stood near the piano. For a moment Mary could not realize this was Torchy — this poised, beautiful woman, in a daringly cut evening gown. As if she were quite alone in the room, she began to sing — casually, softly, her gaze fixed on some far-off vision she alone could see. At the end, she acknowledged the applause, then disappeared. SHE'S wonderful, Ned!" Mary breathed in sincere admiration. He was about to answer her when they both stiffened in amazement. Torchy was coming toward their table. Ned scrambled awkwardly to his feet as she stopped. "Hello, Ned — Mary," she said, an enigmatic little smile on her lips. "Nice of you to come. . . . Aren't you going to ask me to sit down?" Wordlessly, Ned moved to draw out the chair on which she already had her hand, and she seated herself, still smiling, sure of herself. "Ellis Smith's waiting for me over there," she said with a toss of her head toward another corner of the room. "But I think I ought to stay a while, don't you, Ned? It's very good publicity to be seen with your own husband." "Torchy!" Ned said thickly. "Not to mention the fact," she went on smoothly, ignoring him, "that it's better publicity for you, Ned. And for Mary. Really, I don't think it was very wise of you to bring Mary here." "I'm the best judge of that, Torchy," Mary interposed, and Torchy threw her a swift, challenging glance. "I'm only thinking of your reputation," she said. "A minister's daughter— seen publicly with a married man, and the man's wife at another table altogether. That surely isn't a very pretty picture. And — " she smoothed a fold of her dress, then raised her eyes directly to Ned's — "an even less pretty picture would 51