Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1920)

wpzz >;iid, tlie inference was not without honor in dishonor, but for Madam Cavallini he felt that the mere suggestion from me induced my most abject apology. The) would both forgive me, he said, because of my distraught condition. "I did apologize. Very abjectly. To both of them. I said that I had been aperfect fool ; that they were right, I was mad. I sobbed in the abandonment of my self-abasement. 'Oh, darling. forgive . . . ' "And then Rita raised her little hand, her little white hand, and her voice came to us like the flutter of a bruised bird's wings: " 'I love you . . . and I mus' spik de truth.' "Van Tuyl said, grimly: 'P.e quiet. Madam.' " 'It is all lies,' Rita said, ignoring him, ignoring me, 'all lies we tell you. Meestaire Tome. I vas 'is mistress till de night I meet you. I love wit' im at Millefleurs an' we call it Paradise. He is not de first. But oh, my frien', Meestaire Tom, he is de last . . . you make dat so wit' me. I know now. De oder t'ings . . . dey are so many weeds, wit' their bright colors and strong scents . . . but now ... a flower grow . . . so holy-white, so still, so filling up my heart with white perfume ; my eyes are wet all night wit' holy tears . . . my frien', forgive . . . forgive . . .' "I dont know just what T did then. I gave a cry, T know, because, afterward. Aunt Susan asked me what was the matter with me in the library, and I rushed at Van Tuyl and tried to kill him. and all the time I felt that within me my tormented heart and soul were fighting and warring like demons, and T knew that her heart was breaking, and I didn't believe that it was, and I thought she didn't have a heart, and hells raged within me. unspeakable, intolerable . . . the dark-red, violent hells of romance in violent youth . . . "After a while I was alone. "She had left me her pearls. I had given her my cross. I groaned aloud and cursed my folly and my wisdom, my weakness and my strength. "Later that night Van Tuyl came back and tried to talk with me. He told me that Rita had. the other day, said her farewell to him, and he to her. His golden hour, he said, was passed. He tried co tell me, with all the sweetness I know now he must have felt, of his love for her and what she had been to him ... a beautiful, joyous romance, as she was to us all, as she was to the world, -pilling her fragrance, holding her heart, keeping fast her precious, invincible soul . . . He didn't solace me. then; not until afterward, when his grave love of her. his reverence for her particular quality, seeped into my •The next day she sailed away, wearing my cross upon her breast. She became even greater than before and her name and her many good works have been stainless. . . ." wound and helped to heal it. "Late that night . . . very, very late. T went to her apartment. It was a wild, white night of wind and snow and sleet. I had walked for hours upon hours, thru hells and heavens, thru tortures and raptures, thru fires and waters. I had walked and walked, battling for the immortal salvation of her soul. Then I said to myself that I would go to her, no longer — ah, no longer as man to woman . . . that was dear and dead and tombed . . . but as the minister of God to a soul in dire need of its salvation. As such I should go to her. Oh. God. I prayed, her soul, her precious soul, on the brink, on the brink, to save her soul ... to give her eternal peace ... to make my love of her a God-love . . . this was my prayer . . . "Love . . . what it does . . . how it lift's . . . While T had been fighting my bitterest fight she had risen above me, beyond me . . . her beautiful flesh lay crucified . . . (Continued on paqe 113) 63 P«6 E