“What a stupid ass I am,” he thought. “Why on earth didn’t I kiss that woman?”
He walked up the road for a few moments, then turned and made for the clearing.
The flames were still leaping symmetrically upward into a dense column of smoke, the men still dancing about the pyre, their enthusiasm unabated. As Clive suddenly appeared in their midst an immediate and disagreeable silence fell. Clive had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. He concealed a certain amount of natural shyness under a haughty bearing, which would have repelled strangers had it not been for his charm of expression, the quick laughter of his eyes.
“Does Mr. Charles Rollins happen to be here?” he asked stiffly. “I have brought a letter to him. My name is Clive. I have an apology to make. I stumbled upon your strange ceremony and watched it, not knowing at the time that there was anything private about it——”
“Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it,” cried a hearty voice. A young man pushed forward from the back of the circle and grasped his hand. “I had a letter from Stanley and hoped you would get here in time for this. You can make up for being late only by drinking six quarts of fizz between now and sunrise. Boys, come up and shake.”
Clive’s hand was shaken, with a solemnity which at first embarrassed, then amused him, by every man present. Then solemnity vanished, and with it any lingering remnant of Clive’s shyness.
The odor of savory viands mingled with burning pitch and the subtler perfumes of the forest. A great table was spread. Champagne corks flew. Before an hour was done Clive was voted the liveliest Englishman, that had ever set foot in California, and elected off-hand an honorary member of the Bohemian Club.
CHAPTER II.
At four o’clock Clive once more started for Yorba. He had not drunken six quarts of champagne, but he had commanded the respect of his comrades by the courage with which he had mixed his drinks. Rollins had held his head under a waterfall, in the little river, but it still felt very large. He took off his straw hat and looked at it resentfully. Why had he not worn his traveling cap? He also felt depressed, and reproached himself vehemently. What must Mary Gordon think? Doubtless she was sitting up, waiting for him, and thought him dead—murdered. Nevertheless he had enjoyed himself thoroughly, and he found remorse more coy than he would have wished. He had an uneasy consciousness that if his head did not ache so confoundedly he would not feel remorse at all.
His thoughts wandered to Miss Belmont. “I believe I found the woman for the forest, after all. I wonder if she would fit it as well now. Perhaps, in another mood. I fancy she is a woman of many.”