Mr. Van Rhuys returned the next morning. Helena and several of her
guests drove over to the hotel station to meet him. The train was
not due for some moments after their arrival. Helena sprang from the
char-à-banc and ran up the hill to the Gordon cottage. Clive and Mary
came out to meet her.
“I didn’t want to write you a formal note of congratulation, Miss
Gordon,” she said, smiling charmingly. “I hoped to see you last
night at the dinner. I am so sorry you were not there. It was a most
interesting dinner.”
“So Mr. Clive told me,” said Mary innocently. “You are very kind, dear
Miss Belmont.”
“I want to give you a dinner. To-morrow? I must be quick. I hear my
train. Do say yes.”
“I am so sorry, thank you so much, but papa and I are going to San
Francisco to-morrow afternoon. He has business, and my dress-maker
wants me. After that we are going to pay three visits in San Mateo and
Menlo Park; we hoped to get out of them, but it seems we can’t, and
papa thinks I’d better go.”
“Oh!” said Helena. “What are you going to do with Mr. Clive?”
“That is the question. Of course he will be asked too, as soon as they
know, but he hates the thought of it. He says he will stay in San
Francisco, and run down and see me occasionally, but I hate to have
him there at this time of the year, with those winds and fogs. I want
him to stay here and be comfortable. It is such a rest for him after
that long trip.”
“Miss Gordon, you are beginning badly. You will spoil him. I should
like to marry an Englishman just for the pleasure of bringing him up in
the way he should go. Suppose you leave him in my charge. I will take
good care of him, and see that he does nothing but loaf.” She turned
to Clive, who was staring at her, his hands in his pockets, his lips
together.
“Come over and stay at Casa Norte. You know all the men, and they will
love to have you.”
“Oh, do, Owin,” said Mary. “They are always so jolly there, and I shall
feel much easier about you.”
“Very well,” said Clive, “I will go. Thank you.”
“I’ll send over for you in time for dinner. Will that be right? Oh, my
train! my train! What will Mr. Van Rhuys think of me? Good-bye, Miss
Gordon. _Hasta luego_, Mr. Clive.”
She ran down the hill as a man came forward to meet her. He was a
big well-made man with the walk and carriage, the perfect adjustment
of clothes which distinguish the fashionable New Yorker. His Dutch
ancestry showed vaguely in his face, which was fair and large, and
roughly modelled; but the clever pleasant eyes were American; the deep
lines about them betrayed an experience of life which reclaimed the
face from any tendency to the commonplace. He looked the rather _blasé_
man of forty, yet full of vitality and good-nature, and possessed of
all the brains he would ever need.
His eyes deepened as he took Helena’s hand.
“How jolly well you look,” he said with the slight affectation of
accent peculiar to the smart New Yorker. “I’m awfully glad to see you
again, awfully.”
As the char-à-banc drove off the girls leaned out and waved their hands
to Miss Gordon and Clive, and Van Rhuys was told of the engagement.
“Good-looking chap,” he said.
“Isn’t he?” said Helena enthusiastically. “I sat out all night with
him, just for the pleasure of looking at him.”
Van Rhuys frowned and turned away. He had wished more than once that
Helena Belmont, doubly fascinating as her unconventionality made her,
had been brought up in New York. He had had more than one spasm of
premonitory horror, but had reminded himself that none knew better
than she how to be _grande dame_ if she chose.
When they reached the house he went to his room to clean up, then
sought Helena in her boudoir. She was leaning over the back of a chair,
tipping it nervously.
“I want to say something right away,” she said as he closed the door.
“I want you to release me--I cannot marry you.”
Van Rhuys pressed his lips together and half closed his eyes. But he
merely asked, “What is the reason?”
“I am going to marry Mr. Clive.”
“You are going to do what?” Van Rhuys’ eyes opened very wide. He
understood Helena little, and one of her enduring charms was her
quality of the unexpected. “Are you speaking of the man who is engaged
to Miss Gordon?”
“Yes, that is the man. I am not joking.”
“You mean that you are going to try to cut that poor girl out?”
“I mean that I shall,” said Helena passionately. “He is the only man
that I have ever really wanted, and I intend to have him.”
“It’s a damned dishonorable thing to do.”
“I don’t care. Honor’s nothing but an arbitrary thing, anyhow. I’ll
have what I want. It wasn’t necessary for me to tell you this, but it
does me good to say it to somebody.”
“And you don’t care whether I am hurt or not--nor that poor girl?”
“Oh, I don’t believe I do. I wish I did. I feel so wicked--but I can’t.
I can’t care for anything else. You didn’t love me very much, anyhow.
You are merely in love with me.”
“You never gave me the chance. I have barely kissed you. I had hoped
that after a while, after we were married, it might be different. You
have fully made up your mind?”
“All the mind I’ve got is in it.”
“Then I don’t see that there’s anything for me to do but go. I can’t
hang round here. I’ll have a sudden telegram calling me to New York.
Will you shake hands?”
She came forward and gave him her hand. “Have I been unfair?” she
asked, smiling. “I didn’t have time to write, and at least I didn’t
break it off by telephone, as I did with one of them.”
“You have behaved with the utmost consideration,” said Van Rhuys dryly.
He looked at her a moment. “Suppose you fail?” he asked.
“Fail?” she said haughtily. “I never fail. There’s nothing I’ll stop
at--nothing! nothing! I always get what I want. I was born that way.”
“I know; but there is a pretty tough sort of fibre in some Englishmen,
and they call it honor. Well, good luck to you. And good-bye; I shall
go on the 4.10.”