He passed his nights in the Bohemian Club camp, his mornings in bed,
the remaining hours wandering about with his betrothed; and felt that
altogether life was not understood by the pessimists. England, with
the struggles and cares and responsibilities it held in store for him,
seemed to exist only between the rusty covers of history, and life a
thing to be dawdled away in a wonderful forest, where the very air made
a man hate the thought of all that was hard and ugly and too serious.
Clive was something more than curious to see Miss Belmont again,
but hardly knew whether he ought to go to her house or not. It was
possible that she expected him to decline an invitation proffered
before an unpleasant adventure; but unless he pleaded sudden illness
he did not see his way out of acceptance. On Saturday, however, Mary
received a note from the châtelaine of Casa del Norte, reminding her of
the dinner and of her promise to bring Mr. Clive.
“Charley Rollins tells me that he is the best all-round Englishman he
has ever known,” the note concluded; “not the least bit of a cad. I am
most anxious to meet him.”
Mary laughed as she handed the note to Clive. “If any other woman had
written that I’d never enter her house again. But, somehow, you let
her say and do exactly what she chooses. The trouble is that the only
Englishmen she has met have been fortune-hunters. When we are married
I’ll ask her over to visit us, and let her meet men who are almost as
perfect as you are.”
Clive said “Yes, dear,” absently. Three days of unshifting devotion had
blunted the fine point of his content.
* * * * *
The next day Mary was prostrate with one of the severe headaches to
which she was subject, and sent Clive off with Charley Rollins to the
dinner.
“Go, go, my boy,” Mr. Gordon had said to him, when Clive had displayed
a decent amount of reluctance; “she’ll be too ill to be spoken to for
twenty-four hours. You could do no good by hanging round.”
During the hour’s drive through the redwoods Clive said to Rollins,
“You are a great friend of Miss Belmont, are you not?”
“I am, for a fact.”
“Have you known her long?”
“She nearly scratched my eyes out when she was three and I five. I’ve
adored her ever since, and think the reason I’ve been able to hang on
successfully is because I’ve never proposed to her.”
“I’ve heard several opinions of her, and I’d like yours. I can’t say
that, so far, I’ve met anyone likely to understand her. You should,
particularly as you have never made love to her.”
Rollins half closed his shrewd, dark eyes, and tilted his hat over
his nose. Like all San Francisco men, he looked carelessly dressed,
although in evening clothes, and carried himself badly; but his face
was clear and refined, his hair and beard trimly cut.
“Helena Belmont,” he said, in what the club called his “summing-up
voice,” “has the genius of California in her, like Sibyl Sanderson and
a dozen others I could mention without stopping to think, although they
would be mere names to you. You see, it is like this: all sorts of men
came here in early days--poor men of good family who had failed at
home, or were too proud to work there; desperadoes, adventurers, men
of middle life and broken fortunes--all of them expecting everything
from the new land, and ready to tear the heart out of anyone who got
in their way. It was every man for himself and the devil take the
hindmost. Many succeeded. Some of their methods will not bear the
fierce light of history. That savage spirit, that instinct to trample
to a goal over anything or anybody, that intolerance of restraint,
still lingers in the very atmosphere, and is quick in the blood of many
of the present generation, although, strangely enough, it has given a
distincter individuality to the women than to the men. Of course, there
are Californians and Californians. It is always a mistake to generalize
too freely, but the type I speak of is the most significant, although
you will find no Californian exactly like any other American. This is
the land of the composite. All America and all Europe have emptied
themselves into it. God knows what it will sift down to eventually--the
commonplace, probably. As for Helena Belmont, Jack Belmont, her father,
came here in the fifties, and hung up his shingle. He was one of the
cleverest lawyers the State has had. He rarely drew a sober breath,
and was never seen to stagger; he was an inveterate gambler, and a
terror with women. He married a Miss Lowell, of Boston, who came out
here on a visit--a beautiful girl; and God knows what she went through
with him. You may be surprised that she married him. I may have given
you the impression that he was a cowboy in a red shirt and sombrero.
Jack Belmont was one of the most elegant men this State has ever seen,
a gentleman when he was drunkest, and the idol of the Southern set, a
strong contingent here. There you have the elements of which Helena
Belmont is made up. She has the blood of Cavaliers and Roundheads in
her veins; she grew up amidst the clash of the South against the North,
for no two people could ever have been more unmated than her mother
and father; and she was born in California, nurtured on its new savage
traditions, and mentally and temperamentally fitted to draw in twice
her measure of its atmosphere. She does what she pleases, because she
would never know if she were beaten, has a tremendous personality and a
million dollars. Here we are.”