Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

S2 SCREENLAND FORT ORANGE CHEMICAL CO., ALBANY, N. Y. the preview and the opening. He didn't see Karen, and when the executive office called and asked that he drop in to talk contracts, Tom suggested that they wait a while. He was wise enough to know that now was the executive office's chance if he proved a bet. He was gambling on critics and applau.se — and no one knew better than he how fickle both were — by waiting. He kept to himself — avoiding the crowded restaurants where folk met and gossiped. He did a deal of tramping in the country, a deal of soul inviting, and plenty of striving with the finer things in his nature — and the baser ones. He loved Karen — he admitted to his heart that he had never ceased, since that first, far-off moment of realization, to love her. He faced facts finally and surely. But there was the girl who had followed him across seven tortuous seas. And though it had been a ghastly mistake — it was a mistake that couldn't be annulled. Tom arrived at the night of the opening thin and finely drawn, and far handsomer than he had been in his more robust days. He drove to the opening in a great lilaccolored limousine, with Karen and her director. None of them spoke during the short, oddly lonesome drive. A motion picture opening — lights glaring and cameras clicking and microphones reaching hungry arms to snatch at this lion and that near-lion. Tom felt strange and hostile and shy as he stepped from the limousine and gave his hand to Karen ; he felt inarticulate when he was propelled, in Karen's wake, toward the most glittering "mike." Karen spoke simply and directly as was her custom. She said : "Yes, I am the star of thees picture. But it is for my leading man that I want your — enthusiasm. You know him as a great comedian. You lest him a leetle while. I return him to you as a great lovair — and a great actor. I introduce to you — Mr. Thomas Kildare !" Tom stood in front of the mike. Karen's perfume — a heady concoction of gardenia and patchouli — was in his senses ; Karen's glamour surrounded him. But — with an odd, loyal perversity — he forced himself to see only a figure in bed, making the slightest ripple beneath a white coverlet. He cleared his throat and said huskily : "I hope you who are listening-in will enjoy my comeback when you get around to see it. I guess that's all I've got to say." Applause. Clapping and cheering and the calling of many voices. Hands that had been a million miles distant wrung Tom's hand as he walked dazedly from the theatre after three gleaming, unreal hours. Voices hailed him — voices that he had forgotten during the lean months and years. The president of the company no less said in genial tones : "No holding you, young man — " (Young man, and Tom felt centuries old!) — "We'll get that contract drawn up tomorrow." A car salesman muscled in, and tried to make an appointment — and Tom jotted an autograph on an unknown lady's scarlet slipper. Presently he and Karen were in the lilac limousine — without the director — and were on the road to Karen's home. They didn't speak until they were in the drawing room, but during the drive their shoulders touched and their fingers were tensely locked. When they entered the drawing room Karen suggested half shyly: "I theenk we should have caviar — and champagne." Tom said in answer: "Caviar and champagne— they're a symbol of what you've given back to me, Karen. I can't thank you enough. I can't — ■" he gulped out the words, willy-nilly — "love you enough . . ." He paused, for Karen was in his arms. God knows it was not of his doing ; it was she who was holding him close. "I've adored you for years," she gasped, "I would have given my soul to marry you long ago — when you first mentioned it. But it was deadly serious with me — the core of my being. And you laughed, and so — " Tom said heavily, "I was a comedian, then." Karen went on wildly : "Let's go away. Let's go far away, now — tonight. Let's Star and producer meet on the "Show Boat" set! Above, Irene Dunne and Carl Laemmle, Jr. stay away forever, if need be. What do contracts count, what does anything matter? Except us !" Tom was kissing her hungrily, but his eyes were dead hearths when he gently disengaged her arms. "My wife matters," he said. "I worship you, Karen— no thing to laugh about any more. I'd cut off my fingers, one by one, for you. But I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head, so I guess it's — out. Mary's had a thin time with me after her health, and my money, went — she deserves the fun that goes with being the wife of a success. She deserves the fighting chance that money may give her." Karen stared at Tom. Her great eyes seemed to follow his speech, word by word. When he finished talking she nodded, just once — that nod was her bow, a gracious one, to the inevitable. Very quietly she strolled across the room to the place where a bell pull — embroidered in an old world convent — was dangling. She was poised, secure, apparently unruffled, but her cheeks were hollow and her lids were heavy. "We'll have our champagne," she told Tom quietly, "we'll have that, at least." The butler came, primed for instructions, glowing with pride. He said : "The flowers, Miss Kent — the house is crowded with them ! And the telegrams. And one for Mr. Kildare." Tom also was poised. His voice was carefully casual as he murmured, "How'd anybody guess I was here?" He said, "Bring it in, Simpson." Karen said, "Mine can go until morning." The butler bustled off, to return with a flat yellow envelope. Tom slit it open — read through it so slowly that it might have been a copy of "Anthony Adverse." He was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke. "I guess, Karen," he said, "that I'd better go back to my rooms ... I want to be alone . . . I'll give you a call in a few days." Karen didn't let any ray of light — any color of sympathy — show from beneath her thick lashes. She murmured : "Don't bother about the wine, Simpson." She said simply, "Poor keed!" Tom Kildare couldn't know whether she meant him — or someone else. (Conclusion)