The next morning she awoke with a sudden pang of sympathy for Mary
Gordon. Her intuitions were keener 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,” she said, “and help me arrange them.”
The water was ready in the silver and crystal bowls. She disposed the
roses with a few practised touches, then turned and flung her arms
about Clive and kissed him.
“What is the matter,” she asked. “Didn’t you sleep?”
“No; not much.”
“You said you would not think. Not for twelve days.”
“I shall try not to.”
“You must sleep after breakfast. I’ll have your room darkened and all
the horrid flies put out, and Faun will stand outside your door and see
that no one passes.”
“What a dear little wife you would make.”
“Do you think I would make a good wife?” she asked anxiously. “That you
could do anything with all this raw material?”
“I think 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 enough for him
to scent a battle ahead, and the savage in her was ardent for the
fight.
The household was profoundly interested. Helena, despite her love of
power, had never been known before to deliberately woo a man from
another woman. They knew that she must be mastered by a passion 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-guage, 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, anyhow; 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.”