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Here and there one sees a man or woman who is, through some trick of fate, by nature a compelling thing unconsciously demanding that one should submit to some domineering attraction. One does not call it domineering, but it is so. This special creature is charged unfairly with more than his or her single share of force. Betty Vanderpoel thought this out as this "other one" came to her.
They were brought up in a brown-stone mansion built upon a fashionable New York thoroughfare roaring with traffic. There may have existed Pueblo Indians who had heard rumours of the price of it. All the shop-keepers and farmers in the United States had read newspaper descriptions of its furnishings and knew the value of the brocade which hung in the bedrooms and boudoirs of the Misses Vanderpoel.
Of course he had never been in one of these swell Fifth Avenue houses, and he felt a bit nervous but Miss Vanderpoel would have told her father what sort of fellow he was, and her father was likely to be something like herself. The house, which had been built since Lady Anstruthers' marriage, was well "up-town," and was big and imposing.
The resulting experience was an enlightening one, far more illuminating to the quick-witted American child than it would have been to an English, French, or German one, who would not have had so much to learn, and probably would not have been so quick at the learning. Betty Vanderpoel knew nothing which was not American, and only vaguely a few things which were not of New York.
She was actually able to look as the first Reuben Vanderpoel would have looked at her capital of resource. But it meant taut holding of the reins. "Will you tell me," she said, stopping, "what it is you want?" "I want to talk to you.
Was he making faces at him? The drawn malignant mouth and muscles suggested it. Was he a lunatic, indeed? But the sense of disgusted outrage changed all at once to horror, as, with a countenance still more hideously livid and twisted, his visitor slid helplessly from his seat and lay a huddling heap of clothes on the floor. When Mr. Vanderpoel landed in England his wife was with him.
The country about there was full of queer places, and both he and Lord Dunstan knew more about them than I know about Twenty-third Street." "You saw Lord Mount Dunstan often?" Mr. Vanderpoel suggested. "Every day, sir. And the more I saw him, the more I got to like him. He's all right. But it's hard luck to be fixed as he is that's stone-cold truth. What's a man to do?
He wondered at first not unnaturally how a girl had learned certain things she had an obviously clear knowledge of. As they continued to converse he learned. Reuben S. Vanderpoel was without doubt a man remarkable not only in the matter of being the owner of vast wealth.
"She bent over the bed and laughed just like any other nice girl and she said, 'You are at Stornham Court, which belongs to Sir Nigel Anstruthers. Lady Anstruthers is my sister. I am Miss Vanderpoel. And, boys, she used to come and talk to me every day." "George," said Nick Baumgarten, "you take about seventy-five bottles of Warner's Safe Cure, and rub yourself all over with St. Jacob's Oil.
"I don't know much about gardens," said Miss Vanderpoel, "but I can understand that." The scent of fresh bedewed things was in the air. It was true that she had not known much about gardens, but here standing in the midst of one she began to awaken to a new, practical interest. A creature of initiative could not let such a place as this alone. It was beauty being slowly slain.
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