CHAPTER XV. METAMORPHOSIS
As Irvin seized her hands and looked at her eagerly, half-fearfully,Rita achieved sufficient composure to speak.
"Oh, Mr. Irvin," she said, and found that her voice was not entirelynormal, "what must you think--"
He continued to hold her hands, and:
"I think you are very indiscreet to be out alone at three o'clock inthe morning," he answered gently. "I was recalled to London by urgentbusiness, and returned by road--fortunately, since I have met you."
"How can I explain--"
"I don't ask you to explain--Miss Dresden. I have no right and no desireto ask. But I wish I had the right to advise you."
"How good you are," she began, "and I--"
Her voice failed her completely, and her sensitive lips began totremble. Monte Irvin drew her arm under his own and led her back to meetthe car, which the chauffeur had turned and which was now approaching.
"I will drive you home," he said, "and if I may call in the morning. Ishould like to do so."
Rita nodded. She could not trust herself to speak again. And havingplaced her in the car, Monte Irvin sat beside her, reclaiming her handand grasping it reassuringly and sympathetically throughout the shortdrive. They parted at her door.
"Good night," said Irvin, speaking very deliberately because of analmost uncontrollable desire which possessed him to take Rita in hisarms, to hold her fast, to protect her from her own pathetic self andfrom those influences, dimly perceived about her, but which intuitivelyhe knew to be evil.
"If I call at eleven will that be too early?"
"No," she whispered. "Please come early. There is a matinee tomorrow."
"You mean today," he corrected. "Poor little girl, how tired you willbe. Good night."
"Good night," she said, almost inaudibly.
She entered, and, having closed the door, stood leaning against it forseveral minutes. Bleakness and nausea threatened to overcome her anew,and she felt that if she essayed another step she must collapse uponthe floor. Her maid was in bed, and had not been awakened by Rita'sentrance. After a time she managed to grope her way to her bedroom,where, turning up the light, she sank down helplessly upon the bed.
Her mental state was peculiar, and her thoughts revolved about thejourney from Oxford Street homeward. A thousand times she mentallyrepeated the journey, speaking the same words over and over again, andhearing Monte Irvin's replies.
In those few minutes during which they had been together her sentimentsin regard to him had undergone a change. She had always respected Irvin,but this respect had been curiously compounded of the personal and themercenary; his well-ordered establishment at Prince's Gate had loomedbehind the figure of the man forming a pleasing background to theportrait. Without being showy he was a splendid "match" for any woman.His wife would have access to good society, and would enjoy every luxurythat wealth could procure. This was the picture lovingly painted andconstantly retouched by Rita's mother.
Now it had vanished. The background was gone, and only the man remained;the strong, reserved man whose deep voice had spoken so gently, whosedevotion was so true and unselfish that he only sought to shield andprotect her from follies the nature of which he did not even seek tolearn. She was stripped of her vanity, and felt loathsome and unworthyof such a love.
"Oh," she moaned, rocking to and fro. "I hate myself--I hate myself!"
Now that the victory so long desired seemed at last about to be won, shehesitated to grasp the prize. One solacing reflection she had. She wouldput the errors of the past behind her. Many times of late she had foundherself longing to be done with the feverish life of the stage. Enviedby those who had been her companions in the old chorus days, and any oneof whom would have counted ambition crowned could she have played TheMaid of the Masque, Rita thought otherwise. The ducal mansions androse-bowered Riviera hotels through which she moved nightly had no charmfor her; she sighed for reality, and had wearied long ago of the canvaspalaces and the artificial Southern moonlight. In fact, stage life hadnever truly appealed to her--save as a means to an end.
Again and yet again her weary brain reviewed the episodes of the nightsince she had left Cyrus Kilfane's flat, so that nearly an hour hadelapsed before she felt capable of the operation of undressing. Finally,however, she undressed, shuddering although the room was warmed by anelectric radiator. The weakness and sickness had left her, but she wasquite wide awake, although her brain demanded rest from that incessantreview of the events of the evening.
She put on a warm wrap and seated herself at the dressing-table,studying her face critically. She saw that she was somewhat pale andthat she had an indefinable air of dishevelment. Also she detectedshadows beneath her eyes, the pupils of which were curiously contracted.Automatically, as a result of habit, she unlocked her jewel-case andtook out a tiny phial containing minute cachets. She shook several outon to the palm of her hand, and then paused, staring at her reflectionin the mirror.
For fully half a minute she hesitated, then:
"I shall never close my eyes all night if I don't!" she whispered, as ifin reply to a spoken protest, "and I should be a wreck in the morning."
Thus, in the very apogee of her resolve to reform, did she drive onemore rivet into the manacles which held her captive to Kazmah andCompany.
Upon a little spirit-stove stood a covered vessel containing milk, whichwas placed there nightly by Rita's maid. She lighted the burner andwarmed the milk. Then, swallowing three of the cachets from the phial,she drank the milk. Each cachet contained three decigrams of malourea,the insidious drug notorious under its trade name of Veronal.
She slept deeply, and was not awakened until ten o'clock. Her breakfastconsisted of a cup of strong coffee; but when Monte Irvin arrived ateleven Rita exhibited no sign of nerve exhaustion. She looked bright andcharming, and Irvin's heart leapt hotly in his breast at sight of her.
Following some desultory and unnatural conversation:
"May I speak quite frankly to you?" he said, drawing his chair nearer tothe settee upon which Rita was seated.
She glanced at him swiftly. "Of course," she replied. "Is it--about mylate hours?"
He shook his head, smiling rather sadly.
"That is only one phase of your rather feverish life, little girl," hesaid. "I don't mean that I want to lecture you or reproach you. I onlywant to ask you if you are satisfied?"
"Satisfied?" echoed Rita, twirling a tassel that hung from a cushionbeside her.
"Yes. You have achieved success in your profession." He strove invain to banish bitterness from his voice. "You are a 'star,' and yourphotograph is to be seen frequently in the smartest illustrated papers.You are clever and beautiful and have hosts of admirers. But--are yousatisfied?"
She stared absently at the silk tassel, twirling it about her whitefingers more and more rapidly. Then:
"No," she answered softly.
Monte Irvin hesitated for a moment ere bending forward and grasping herhands.
"I am glad you are not satisfied," he whispered. "I always knew you hada soul for something higher--better."
She avoided his ardent gaze, but he moved to the settee beside her andlooked into the bewitching face.
"Would it be a great sacrifice to give it all up?" he whispered in a yetlower tone.
Rita shook her head, persistently staring at the tassel.
"For me?"
She gave him a swift, half-frightened glance, pressing her hands againsthis breast and leaning, back.
"Oh, you don't know me--you don't know me!" she said, the good that wasin her touched to life by the man's sincerity. "I--don't deserve it."
"Rita!" he murmured. "I won't hear you say that!"
"You know nothing about my friends--about my life--"
"I know that I want you for my wife, so that I can protect you fromthose 'friends.'" He took her in his arms, and she surrendered her lipsto him.
"My sweet little girl," he whispered. "I cannot believe it--yet."
r /> But the die was cast, and when Rita went to the theatre to dress for theafternoon performance she was pledged to sever her connection with thestage on the termination of her contract. She had luncheon with MonteIrvin, and had listened almost dazedly to his plans for the future.His wealth was even greater than her mother had estimated it to be, andRita's most cherished dreams were dwarfed by the prospects which MonteIrvin opened up before her. It almost seemed as though he knew andshared her dearest ambitions. She was to winter beneath real Southernpalms and to possess a cruising yacht, not one of boards and canvas likethat which figured in The Maid of the Masque.
Real Southern palms, she mused guiltily, not those conjured up byopium. That he was solicitous for her health the nature of his schemesrevealed. They were to visit Switzerland, and proceed thence to a villawhich he owned in Italy. Christmas they would spend in Cairo, explorethe Nile to Assouan in a private dahabiyeh, and return home via theRiviera in time to greet the English spring. Rita's delicate, swiftlychanging color, her almost ethereal figure, her intense nervous energyhe ascribed to a delicate constitution.
She wondered if she would ever dare to tell him the truth; if she oughtto tell him.
Pyne came to her dressing-room just before the performance began. Hehad telephoned at an early hour in the morning, and had learned from hermaid that Rita had come home safely and was asleep. Rita had expectedhim; but the influence of Monte Irvin, from whom she had parted at thestage-door, had prevailed until she actually heard Sir Lucien's voicein the corridor. She had resolutely refrained from looking at the littlejewelled casket, engraved "From Lucy to Rita," which lay in her make-upbox upon the table. But the imminence of an ordeal which she dreadedintensely weakened her resolution. She swiftly dipped a little nail-fileinto the white powder which the box contained, and when Pyne came in sheturned to him composedly.
"I am so sorry if I gave you a scare last night, Lucy," she said. "But Iwoke up feeling sick, and I had to go out into the fresh air."
"I was certainly alarmed," drawled Pyne, whose swarthy face looked morethan usually worn in the hard light created by the competition betweenthe dressing-room lamps and the grey wintry daylight which crept throughthe windows. "Do you feel quite fit again?"
"Quite, thanks." Rita glanced at a ring which she had not possessedthree hours before. "Oh, Lucy--I don't know how to tell you--"
She turned in her chair, looking up wistfully at Pyne, who was standingbehind her. His jaw hardened, and his glance sought the white hand uponwhich the costly gems glittered. He coughed nervously.
"Perhaps"--his drawling manner of speech temporarily deserted him; hespoke jerkily--"perhaps--I can guess."
She watched him in a pathetic way, and there was a threat of tears inher beautiful eyes; for whatever his earlier intentions may havebeen, Sir Lucien had proved a staunch friend and, according to his ownpeculiar code, an honorable lover.
"Is it--Irvin?" he asked jerkily.
Rita nodded, and a tear glistened upon her darkened lashes.
Sir Lucien cleared his throat again, then coolly extended his hand, oncemore master of his emotions.
"Congratulations, Rita," he said. "The better man wins. I hope you willbe very happy."
He turned and walked quietly out of the dressing-room.