The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 12, 1905, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY . CALL. “LJHY DO YOU ey idea of a moment. nd a better. Th happi- ‘It your You ur- r t not for v u afral & 3 eing disloyal 1 Gordon? these two t hers. If you how are we I will keep me—ig that v did you ask her to marry you— things as clearly as you do? )t the same excuse for you men.” ago I had thought less. n't know. No man knows be- what he will do in any ecir- stance. Perhaps I should behave sundrel and cut. Perhaps I strength somewhere.” is th e of strength? What ose ideals amount to, anyhow? 1 had most exalted long- sire for something better and T know what. And I vs asked—To what end? Cui s because you believe that the of your nature means noth- t the blind striving of millions 1gs for spiritual things, which is ated under the general name of n, means nothing. The lower P you live on now, the longer be your climb hereafter.” S0 SEE/0US, “Does Mary Gordon share your con- victions? “I have mnever spoken of them to he: Shall you?” Most likely. And she will believe whatever you tell her to believe?” think I can carry her with me.” 1d that will be another bond?” “You are an extraordinary man, and we do have the most remarkable mid- night conversations.” “1 am ready to talk of other things. - going to give me these two ou going to behave yourself, or are you going to treat me to another performance like that of last night?” “Oh—never! I hope I shall never feel that way again. Papa used to encour- age me when 1 got on my high horse, and I always let myself go. But I be- came ashamed of myself for being so undignified, some years ago. I can’t think why I—yes, I can, of course, and you know why just as well as I do.” “Give me your hand.” She gave it to him, and he bent over her. She had no thought of fallure, but she shrank away. “Wait,” she said. “For what? You have dismissed \'unk Rhuys, and we have only two weeks.” “Is it pecessary that I should kiss “Do you think it would be fair to me if you did not? Do you expect me to wander all day in that forest and sit up ail night with you without kissing you? What do you think I am made of? I might with a woman who was intellectual and nothing more, but not with you.” She slipped away from him and stood up, drawing her hands over her eyes. “I cannot understand myself,” she said. “T have let eight men kiss me and thought little about it, but I can- not kiss you, whom I would rather than any man I have ever known. Won't you go away now 2" He got up at once. “I don't know what there is about you,” he said. “I never knew another woman whom I woul@ have obeyed for a moment in the same conditions. Good-night.” CHAPTER XIIL Hc did not see her alone again for two days, although he was with her constantly, and they had long talks apart. There were seven clever men at Casa Norte this time; all of the wo- men were bright, or more, and the days and nights were very gay. They rode and drove and sailed and pic- nicked, and sang and played tennis and told stories, and there was much good conversation. Clive wrote a brief note daily to Mary Gordon, but gave up his thoughts recklessly to Helena Belmoat. She showed to full advan- tage as hostess; thoughtful, suggest~ ive, womanly, unselfish. Her mind, as revealed in their long conversations, captivated him. Her grace appealed more keenly to his senses than her beauty, which sometimes, as she talk- ed. wholly disappeared, broken by a personality so strong and so variable as to play havoc with its harmonies. On the third morning he met her in the pink-and-green wilderness of the rose garden. The dew glittered on every leaf and petal, for the sun was hardly over the mountain. The guests had been ordered early to bed the night before, that they might rise early and go on a picnic in a distant part of the forest. Rollins was buttoning his shirt before an open window and sing- ing a duet with Mrs. Tower, who had her head out of another window. Hel- ena wore a pink-and-white organdie frock and a large hat lined with pink. She was gathering a cluster of roses for her belt. As Clive joined her she plucked a bud and pinned it on his che- viot shirt; he wore no coat; the men only dressed for dinner. Clive’s broad shoulders were between the house and Helena. He pressed his :sgd suddenly over hers, flattening the ud. “You've stuck me,” she said, pout- ing. *“These roses are full of thorns.” “I think I'd better go.” She gave him a glance of mingled alarm, anger and appeal. *“You will not go!” She turned her clasped it over his. hand about and “What is the use? I'm afraid I'm getting in too deep. What common sensc I have left tells me to get out while there is time.” She tightened her clasp. “But you won't go?” she said imperlously. “No, I shall not en. If I did, I shouldn’t stay.” Helena threw back her head, her wo- man’s keen delight in power over man as strong for the moment as her glad- y ness in Clive's touch and presence. After breakfast Miss Belmont and her guests drove for two hours through the forest, scarcely seeing the sun, then camped in a canyon by a running stream. The canyon was narrow at the bottom, but widened above, and seemed to have gathered all the sun- shine of the day. Its sides were a tan- gle of fragrant chaparral, wild roses, purple lilac and red lily, the delicate green of young trees, the metallic green and red of the madrono. On high were the stark redwoods. Some of the men went frankly to sleep after luncheon. The others and several of the girls fished ardently. “Come,” said Helena to Clive. “There is a trail over there, and I want to see what is on top.” “1t will be a hard pull.” They pushed in among the fronds, which grew taller as they penetrated. Soon Clive had no need to hold the leaves apart for his companion; they spread out a foot or more above their heads. The place, a young forest of slender columns, was fllled with green light. Small feathery ferns nodded in a little breeze. The creek seemed to murmur above them. Clive turned and looked at Helena. Her face was glori- fied. He took her in his arms and kissed her. She did not shrink from him, ‘and they clung together. After a few moments she moved her head back and looked up at him. His eyes were not laughing. “There is something I want to say,” she sald. “A woman doesn’t usually say it until she is asked. I love you. I want you to know that I couldn't kiss you like that if I did not.” “I believe that you love me,” he gaid. “Did you guess the reason I did not kiss you the other night? I had intend- ed to, but it suddenly came to me that you did not love me enough, that you were merely in love with me; and I could not give myself like that. I th- tended to walt longer than this. But I forgot.” She hesitated a moment—the calor left her face. “Do you love me?’ she asked. “Yes,” he said, “T love you.” She went back to his arms, but even ‘while she learned the lesson that some ‘women learn once only, and then pos- sessingly and finally, she realized that she had not the courage to speak of Mary Gordon. She had intended, the moment she was ‘sure of him, to com: mand him to break his engagement at once; but her arrogant will found itself supple before the strong fiber of the man, and shrank from the encoun- ter. They walked on after a time, un- til they came to a stone, where they sat down. She put her hands about his, face. The motion was a little awk- ward, but she was a woman who would grow very lavish with caresses. “Why do you look so. serious?” she asked. *“You looked so different a mo- ment ago.” ‘“The situation is serious,” he said hriefly. “But don't let us talk about it; we have twelve more days.” She threw her head back against his shoulder and looked up into the feath- ery roof. A ray of light wandered in and touched her face. “I am so hap- py.” she said, “I don’t caré what to- morrow brings. I have thought and thought of being with you like this and now I am and it is enougn. I ought to be sericus—I know what you are thinking of—but it doesn’t matter; nothing but this matters. I never took life seriously—except in a sort of ab- stract mental way occasionally—until keep it up.” “You could keep it up. know yourself.” “Once I got dreadfully bored and took care of a sick poor woman who lived in & cabin near a place whers I Her husband was away in the mines, and she had no one to look after her but neighbors as poor as I sat up with her and wnrkfl; ‘was frightfuly Interested, and so proud of myself. Then one morning—I think it was the fifth—I was sitting by the window about four o’clock, looking at the view, which was beautiful—a roll- ing country covered with closely trim- . med grapevines, and miles and mlles beyond, a range of the blue mountains. It was so quiet. Eternity must be like that quiet of four in the morning. And gradually as I looked the most sick- ening disgust crept over me for the life I hed led the past fcur days, an utter collapsing of my philanthropy. I want- ed to go away and be frivolous. I was hideously bored. I hated the sick wo- man, her poverty and everything se- I stole away and sent back a servant to stop until I could ‘went” was_staying. herself. over her as if she were my sister. rious in life. get a trained nurse. 1 near the woman again.” never a week ago, and I doubt if 1 could You don’t He pressed her to him with passion- ate sympathy. ‘“Poor child,” he said, “you have lived only in the shallows. I wish you always might.” But she was too happy to heed any- thing but the strength of his embrace. “You don’t know yourself,” he said, “not the least little bit.” “I know a lot more than you think, and I know how I can love you.” “You hardly know that. You have merely a vague far-away notion. All your woman’s lore i{s borrowed, and you are only half awake. Your mind, your mental conception of things, has outrun everything else. If the other part ever caught up up you would be a wonderful woman.” Something in his tone made her take her will be- tween her teeth. “You will teach me,” she sald imp riously, “as long as we are both alive. “Yes, if I am a scoundrel, But don't let us talk about that now, please. I will be happy, too. Come, let us get out of this. It is damp and we will get rheumatism, whien 1s not ruman- tic. Let us go homa and sit in your bLoudoir. I feel as if T sheuld like to be surrounded by the eonventionalities of life for a time. One feels too primi- tive in this forest.” CHAPTER XIIL The next morning she awoke with a sudden pang of sympathy for Mary Gordon. Her intuitions were Kkeener than they had ever been. She turned restlessly, then sprang out of bed and rang for her maid. She went out into the garden and gathered a basket of roses for the breakfast table. As she entered the court, the dew on her hair, her damp frock clinging to her bust and arms, Clive was standing by the fountain, and alone. - His eyes had been dull, but the light sprang to them as he went forward to meet her. He half held out his arms. She dropped the basket into them with a little laugh. “Come into the dining-room,” said, “and help me arrange them. The water was ready in the silver and crystal bowls. She disposed the roses with a few practiced touches, then turned and flung her arms about Clive and kissed him. “What is the matter?” she she asked. “Ye+ must sleep after breakfast, I'll hav r room darkened and all the horric ‘= put out, and Faun will stand o @ your door and see that no me passe. ‘a3t a acar little wife you would max “® € u think I would make a good 0! he asked anxiously. “That you conlu do anything with all this raw mar “ial?" “l hink you would make the most perfect’ wife in the world,” he said. Helena made no secret of her love for Clive. Even if she had been less sure of success, she would have gloried in doing him honor. But, although she did not doubt the issue, she had respect cnough for him to scent a bat- tle ahead, and the savage in her was ardent for the fight. The household was profoundly inter- ested. Helena, despite her love of power, had never been known before to deliberately woo a man from an- other woman. They knew that she must be mastered by a pasion new to her, to ignore a girl whom she liked and respected as she did Mary Gordon. Even the women believed she would win; only Rollins doubted. “I don't know,"” he said to Mrs. Lent; “he’s broad-gauge, that man. He's so infatuated now that he doesn't know where he's at. But he'll wake up, and then I don’t know that even Helena Belmont will be able to manage him. A man hates to go back on a girl, any- how; he doesn't exactly know how to do it.” “Well, I wish he'd hurry and make up his mind,” said Mrs. Lent, “for he looks like a funeral. He flirted with even poor little me when he first came, but I haven't seen that delightfully wicked expression in his eyes for a week.” CHAPTER XIV. Clive would not sit up all night with Helena, but they spent hours of the day in the forest, and there was noth- ing funereal in his aspect when they were alone. One morning Helena's maid brought her a note whem she came to awaken her. " “My Dear Miss Belmuot “I am going away for a fe .4 shall be back on Monday, Yours truly, OWIN CLivVE™ Helena stared at the abrupt, formal missive in dismay for a moment; then laughed. She had seen nien struggies her net before. She knew tha: ¥ would keep his word and return. aid had perfect faith in the power ¢f'her seductive charm, no matter what good resolve he might accomplish when away, It was a hot day, and her guests Wwere too indolent to do anything but lie about and smoke and read. They did not want to be entertained, and she let them alone and svent the day In the rose garden in the shade of the oaks. She rather enjoyed thinking of Clive, for variety, and anticipating his return. She concocted clever argu- ments and convincing apneals The next day she sat on a ledge be- low the crest of the cliffs and stared at the huge restless waves of the Pacific rearing agaim the outlying rocks, falling with their baffled roar. ‘There was neither peace, nor reasom, mnor power of anticipation in her. She was insensible of any instinct beyond an insufferable desire for his physical presence. That night she went to bed glad with e thought that she should see him in teen hours, and pictured their meet- ing S0 often and variously, and struck a match to look at the clock so many times, that she slept little. The next morning she was so nervous and ap- prehensive that the placid conversation of her guests was intolerable and she would not driwv with them. After luncheen she went up to a favorite spot in the forest, directing ome of the Chinese servants to conduct Clive to her when he returned. As the afternoon wore on her gloom lifted and passed. She grew light- m i and humorous, almost indiffer- nt. She took herself to task in some dismay; in the fitness of things she should be passionately sericus when he arrived.. ‘“‘Are there really no great crisss in life she thought. “Are we medians gone wrong, personified " But she was helpless; the re- action was inevitable. Clive was late. He was always late. Helena felt no uneasiness, but sat idly, wondering how they uld meet, her mind occcsionaly drifting to other things. She bad carried a large hat lined with white and covered with white plumes, in a box through the damaging brush, and hidden the box in a hollow redwood. The hat, pushed backward on her brilliant hair, en- hanced the oval colorcus beauty of her face. She took it off suddenly and threw it on the ground; the attempt was too evident; all men were not con- sistently dense. She heard a crackling in the brush on the other side of the creek, then the Chinaman'’s protesting voice. “Can’t hully when catchee pigtail allee time, Mister Clive. Me got thiee velly bad sclatches, and clothes allee same no washee.” There was no answer from Clive, but he was in view presently. The China- man retreated hastily, wrapping his pigtail round his neck. Helena rose and went forward. She felt suddenly haughty. After all, it was presumption in a man to take upon himself the deciding of a question which was as vital to her as to him. She wondered iIf she really did love him; certainly sne feit neither tenderness nor tolerance at the mo- resentful and ment. Clive walked slowly across the felled redwood which served as bridge De- tween the high banks of the creek. As he approached Helena forgot herself and her mocds. . “He has suffered horribly,” she thought. “What am I to do that I did not know he must?” And then she realized that she could