Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1919)

crifice HALL W hen he left her at the door that night she gave him her hand. ''God's man," she said, "God's man ..." robes. "If I might help ..." he said, very gently. Helen Rowland straightened. "Let me tell you something of myself," she said. "When I was very tiny I was beautiful. My father saw it. He did not see much else. You must not blame him. 'According to his lights' — isn't that— your book ?" "God's Book." "Bien . . . then . . . my mother helped him, foolishfond. Not wise. Few parents are. They inevitably lose perspective. A fundamental lack. Well, they made a fetich of my beauty. My father, poor dad, outdid himself. He got into a mess. A horrid mess. Trying to keep me like — like an unholy thing. What ideals we have ! What rot we break our hearts for. What gods we kneel to. He took his life, dad did, and snapped it across its spine for me. Then this mess. Henry Rowland, millionaire, was the one man who could save him. I had been well trained — dad and my mirror. I went to Henry Rowland. 'If I am beautiful,' I thought. 'If I am . . .' I was. Dad was saved. He never knew. Dad had a moral sense. Perverted, but sincere. He cultivated my beauty. Gave it to me as my one weapon. My only weapon. Forbade me to use it. Thus our strange conception of duty. After a while I married Henry Rowland. In your house — church. There were lilies . . . that's about all I remember . . . masses and masses of lilies. And there was music. Some young boys sang. Their voices were like angels . . . angels newly dead. High and clear and piercing-sweet. Too sweet. Unutterable. They sang 'The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden.' Isn't there something horrible to you in that, God's man ? Shouldn't they — have jazzed it ?" "But" — John Sterling was obviously in search of grasp — "you cared for him ?" Helen Rowland sat forward. The moonlight made living copper of her hair. Her mouth was a fragrant blur. John Sterling, sitting close beside her, thought of God's inimitable handiwork and gave reverent thanks. In this exquisite body must be lodged as exquisite a soul. If, thru the silly, futile wadding, he might find it . . . he drew a deep breath. "You cared for him?" he repeated. He added, "Of course." Helen Rowland turned to him, and her jewelled eyes were dimmed. "Not 'of course,'" she said; "how come you to be so ingenuous ? You, a man, with the heart of a little child. Of course — not. I had beauty, youth, charm. He had gold, gold, gold. It was an even buy. Give and take. Barter. Exchange." John Sterling rose and stood, very black, very stern, in the samite of the moon. "I want you to come with me," he said, "down into the slums. Down beneath all the considerations of which you have spoken tonight. You are touching life — only on rouged lips. Back of the paint there is tissue and blood — and pain." "Why dwell so on the pain?" asked Helen Rowland. "That we may win thru it to pleasure," smiled John Sterling. "What could you know of pleasure?" scoffed Helen. "The* Kingdom of Heaven within me," said John Sterling. "Heaven is a very chill place," she said, and shrugged. "Hell is a very hot one," he said, and they both laughed. Ten minutes later they were spinning slumward in the Rowland limousine. "Henry Rowland is a good man," said Sterling, in an interlude. "A commercial man," corrected Helen, and the watching priest saw her delicate lips draw together like the shrinkage of flower petals. n 41 } PA6 li