CLIVE drove over the next afternoon. He sat some distance from Helena at dinner, and afterward she and Mrs. Lent played billiards with himself and one of the other men for an hour; the rest of the evening was passed in the large living-room, where Clive listened to better amateur music than he had ever heard before. Some little time after the women had retired, a Chinese servant entered the dining-room, where the men were drinking brandy-and-soda, and said to Clive—
“Missee Hellee wantee slee you in bludoir.”
“What?” asked Clive stupidly.
“Her gracious Majesty is pleased to signify that she will give you audience in her boudoir,” said Rollins, who stood beside him.
“But I can’t go to her room at this hour. It’s one o’clock.”
“That is her affair. Besides, no one else need know. Follow the Mongolian. If you don’t it’s like her to come here and order you to go.”
The Chinaman left Clive at the door of the boudoir. The room was empty and dimly lit. The air was heavy with the scent of the roses beyond the window. Clive looked up into the forest. The aisles were too black for shadows, although the huge trunks were defined. The mysterious arbors above sang gently.
Helena came out of her bedroom presently, closing the door behind her.
Clive went to meet her. “Am I to apologize?” he asked. “I shan’t mean it if I do. What you did was abominable.”
“Don’t scold me. I never thought I’d do such a thing. I don’t know what possessed me.”
“The devil, I should say. But I hope I’ll never see you in that mood again. You were at your unloveliest. You came near to being vulgar.”
“I was quite vulgar and you know it. Don’t let us say any more about it. Sit down here in the window.”
The window-seat was broad and deep and heavily cushioned. They made themselves very comfortable.
“You can light your pipe. I am glad you came—very glad.”
“I ought not to be here at all. I was an ungrateful wretch in the first place not to go where I ought to be now, and a weaker one to come here.”
Helena leaned her elbow on the low grating and looked up at him. There was neither childishness nor coquetry in her eyes.
“But I am glad.” She paused a moment. “I have sent away Mr. Van Rhuys.”
“Mr. Van Rhuys has had a happy escape—and I am not necessarily uncomplimentary to you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me of your engagement to Mary Gordon the other night?”
“Partly because she asked me not to, partly because I didn’t think it would interest you.”
“You are very modest.”
“Would it have interested you?”
“It does—immensely. What an irrepressible flirt you are!”
“Do you expect me to sit up at midnight with a pretty woman, and not flirt with her? Why else did you send for me to come here?”
“You are engaged to another woman.”
“You expect no man to remember his obligations when he is with you.” He laid down his pipe suddenly. “Give me these two weeks,” he said; “I shall never meet a woman like you again. If you will forget what the end must be, I will.”
“Why is it that Englishmen are always marrying that type of woman—and always forgetting their obligations?”
“Because it is the best type of woman alive and the hope of the race. Man is both the victim of his race and of his sex. Woman is only the victim of man—which simplifies the question for her.”
“Do you love Mary Gordon?”
“Yes—very much indeed.”
“Shall you always love her?”
“I think so—more and more. A good woman becomes a great deal to a man. She may lack the two things that enthrall man most, passion and intellect; but she shares his burdens and his sorrows; she never fails him in poverty or in trouble; her sympathy is as ready for the small harrowings of life as for its disasters. She satisfies the domestic instinct which is in every man—symbolizes home to him. She bears his children and gives him unfailing submission and help.”
Helena pressed her fan against her lips. Something stabbed through her.
“A clever woman could give you all that—and more,” she said, after a moment.
“No; she might think she could in the first enthusiasm of love. But she would not, for the reason that she would exact as much in return; and a man has so little time.”
“And is that your idea of happiness?”
He hesitated a moment. “It would be hard to find a better. There are plenty of clever and attractive women a man can always meet.”
“That is not what I asked you. You answered for the race, not for yourself. Are you afraid of being disloyal to Mary Gordon? Well, these two weeks are to be mine, not hers. If you will not be frank with me how are we to know each other? And I will keep your confidences. Tell me—is that your idea of happiness?”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
“Why did you ask her to marry you—seeing things as clearly as you do? There is not the same excuse for you as for many men.”
“Four years ago I had thought less. And propinquity is a strong factor.”
“What shall you do when you meet the one woman?”
“I don’t know. No man knows beforehand what he will do in any circumstance. Perhaps I should behave like a scoundrel and cut. Perhaps I should find strength somewhere.”
“What is the use of strength? What do all those ideals amount to, anyhow? I have often had the most exalted longings, a desire for something better and higher, I hardly know what. And I have always asked—To what end? Cui bono?”
“That is because you will believe that the mystery of your nature means nothing; that the blind striving of millions of beings for spiritual things, which is formulated under the general name of religion, means nothing. The lower plane you live on now the longer will be your climb hereafter.”
“Does Mary Gordon share your convictions?”
“I have never spoken of them to her.”
“Shall you?”
“Most likely.”
“And she will believe whatever you tell her to believe?”
“I think I can carry her with me.”
“And that will be another bond?”
“Yes.”
“You are an extraordinary man, and we do have the most remarkable midnight conversations.”
“I am ready to talk of other things. Are you going to give me these two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Are you 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 encourage me when I got on my high horse, and I always let myself go. But I became 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 failure, but she shrank away.
“Wait,” she said.
“For what? You have dismissed Van Rhuys, and we have only two weeks.”
“Is it necessary that I should kiss you?”
“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 all 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. “I have let eight men kiss me and thought little about it, but I cannot kiss you whom I would rather than any man I have ever known. Won’t you go away now?”
He got up at once.
“I don’t know what there is about you,” he said. “I never knew another woman whom I would have obeyed for a moment in the same conditions. Good-night.”