The Man and the Moment Part 21

"He only stayed one night--he was quite a nice creature--Mr.

Arranstoun."

"Of the castle?" The Princess was thrilled. "Why, darling, he must be the one that they say is going to marry Daisy Van der Horn. He has got some matrimonial tangle like you have, and when he is through with it, Daisy is such dead nuts on him, they say she is certain to get him to marry her! Do tell me exactly what he is like--I am not over fond of Daisy, you know--but she is a splendid specimen of dash and vim."

"He is good-looking, Morri--and he has got 'it.'"

"I gathered that from all that I have heard of him here. Old Miss Buskin, Daisy's aunt, you remember the old horror, says he is 'just too sweet,' and 'that sa.s.sy'--you know her frightfully vulgar way of speaking!--that even she is 'afraid to be alone in the room with him!'"

"I dare say--he--looked like that--he ought to suit Daisy," and then Sabine felt she had been spiteful and tried to divert matters by asking where Mr. Cloudwater was.

"Papa will be in in a moment. He has been dying for you to come back."

But the Princess had not done with Mr. Arranstoun yet. The Van der Horn coterie had rung with his exploits on her return from Italy, and the lurid picture had interested her deeply.

"I do wish I had been at Heronac, Sabine, I would love to have seen that young man. Daisy's aunt told me he was wild about her niece, and at one moment she thought everything was settled--it must have been after he came back from Brittany--and then he went off to England--probably he does not like to speak out until he is free."

Sabine felt that strange sensation she had experienced once before, of heart sinking--and then, furious with herself, she mastered it and became more determined than ever to carry out her intention of growing accustomed to hearing of, and talking about Michael calmly.

"You are sure to meet him in England," she said; "he is a great friend of Henry's."

But afterwards, when she was alone resting in her cosy room before dinner, she deliberately pulled the blue despatch-box toward her and looked at some of its contents, while tears gathered in her eyes, which even the cynical thoughts which she was calling to her aid could not quite suppress. Would things have been different if she had been able to send Michael the letter which she had written to him in the September of 1907? The letter she had asked Mr. Parsons, who was again in London, to have delivered to him, into his hand--and which came back to her in Paris with the information from the old lawyer that Mr. Arranstoun had left England for the wilds of China and Tibet, and might not get any letters for more than a year. She remembered how that night she had cried herself to sleep with misery, and with a growing regret at having left Michael, and a pitiful longing just to be clasped once more in his strong arms and comforted. Oh! the hateful wretched memories! To have gone off at once to China like that proved his callousness and indifference. Then, in spite of herself, her thoughts would review all he had said to her on that morning in the garden. No--there had not been one word of meaning, not even any suggestion of regret that she was practically engaged to Henry. There had been some faint allusion to people being fools--and brutes when young, but not that they would wish to repair the faults which they had committed then. The whole thing was plain--he had never really cared an atom for her. He had been only affected by pa.s.sion, even on her wedding night when he was pouring love vows into her startled ears.

"He was probably horribly surprised to come upon me at Heronac," her thoughts now ran, "and then just sampled me--and went off as soon as he could--back to Daisy in Paris!"

Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears.

Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun. She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption in Henry, and her complete indifference to himself. His vanity would be wounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger. That would be her only revenge--and what a paltry one! She felt that--and was ashamed of herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love is wounded and the pa.s.sion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabine was no better nor worse than any other woman probably. Once more she made resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael either good or bad. It was perfectly sickening--the humiliation and degradation of his so frequently coming into her mind. She pulled the despatch-box nearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope a brown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire.

"There! that is done with--ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!"

And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone and began to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks.

They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them at Charing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel.

How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked! He was as ever a soothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing in deciding to link her life with his.

But it was not so with Moravia. Lord Fordyce had attracted her from the moment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again had boiled up; and alas! Moravia--beautiful young widow and Princess--found herself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeply interested in the declared lover of her friend. Henry for her had every charm. He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with that well-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabine had always said irritated her so.

It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminine instinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all. If she had felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it was fate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actually to feel unhappy. They were continually surrounded with friends, and at every meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delight in. People were just beginning to come back to London, and they had amusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry's family, an intelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them. The Princess had very seldom been in London before--and quite understood that, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoilt all her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn's pet expressions, "terribly amused." Sabine, as the days wore on, and she was under Henry's influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grew happy, and heard Michael's name without a tremor.

For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much she would like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris.

"I had a letter from him this morning," Lord Fordyce said. "He is shooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Friday night. I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what you think of him. He really is a very charming fellow, for all his recklessness--and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you of him are overdrawn."

"Oh, I hope not!" Moravia laughed. "Do not disillusion me!"

Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who had wired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Friday and go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would find another occasion to present his friend.

To him, Henry, this week in late October had been one of almost unalloyed happiness--although he could have dispensed with the continuous parties; still, he felt the Princess had to be amused, and perhaps in a larger company he got more chance of speaking to his beloved alone.

The position of a man nearly always affects women--and the great and unmistakable prestige, which it was plain to be seen Henry possessed, had added to his charm in both Moravia and Sabine's eyes. It gratified Sabine's vanity. She knew this, she was quite cognizant of the fact that it pleased her. She felt glad and proud that she should occupy so exalted a place in the world's eyes, as she would do as his wife. Surely all the great duties and interests of that position would make life very fair. It would be such peace and relief when the divorce proceedings would come on and be finished with--a much less tiresome affair in Scotland, she had heard, than in an English court.

When Michael Arranstoun got Henry's wire asking him to dine, he laughed bitterly. There was something so cynically entertaining in the idea of the whole situation! He was being asked out to meet the wife whom he was madly in love with, and was preparing to divorce for desertion, so that she might marry the giver of the invitation!

He was tempted to accept for a second or two, the desire to see her again was growing almost more than he could bear; but at this period he had still strength to refuse--and then, as the days went on, it seemed that nothing gave him any pleasure, and that constantly and incessantly his thoughts turned to one subject. If there had been no friendship or honor mixed up in the thing, nothing would have been simpler than to sit down and write to Henry telling him plainly that Sabine was his wife--and that she must choose between them. But then he remembered that, apart from all friendship, Sabine had already plainly expressed her choice, and that he had absolutely no right to hold her in any way since he had given her permission all those years ago to make what she chose of her life. He had not yet instructed his lawyers to begin actual proceedings--he was in a furnace of indecision and unrest. He would like just somehow to get Sabine to Arranstoun first--then, if after that she still plainly showed that she loved Henry, he would make himself go ahead with the freedom scheme; but if he commenced actual proceedings now, by no possibility could she come to Arranstoun--and this idea--to get her to Arranstoun, began to be an obsession. Just in proportion as his nature was wild and rebellious, so the mad longing grew and grew in him to induce her to come once more into his house.

And it would seem that fate at first intended to a.s.sist him in this, for on the second of November the party went up North to stay with Rose Forster, Henry's sister, at Ebbsworth for a great ball she was giving for a newly married niece.

CHAPTER XV

For a day or two, Michael Arranstoun could not make up his mind, when he heard of the Ebbsworth ball, as to whether or no he ought to go to it.

He had several conversations with Binko upon the subject, and finally came to the conclusion that he would go. He had grown so desperately unhappy by this time, that he cared no more whether it were right or wrong--he must see Sabine. He had not believed that it could be possible for him to suffer to such a degree about a woman. He _must_ satisfy himself absolutely as to the fact of her loving Henry.

Rose Forster had written, of course, to ask him to stay in the house for it--holding out the bait that she had two absolutely charming Americans coming. So Michael fell--and accepted, not without excusing himself to Binko as he finished writing out his wire:

Thousand thanks. I will come.

"I am a coward, Binko--I ought to have the pluck to go off to Timbuctoo and let Henry have a fair field--but I haven't and must be certain first."

They were all at tea in the library at Ebbsworth when he arrived, having motored over from Arranstoun after lunch.

Everyone was enchanted to see him, and greeted him with delight. He knew almost the whole twenty of them, most of whom were old friends.

The hostess took him over to the tea table, and sitting near it in a ravishing tea-gown was Moravia. Rose Forster introduced him casually, while she poured him out some tea.

The library was a big room with one or two tall screens, and from behind the furthest one there came a low, rippling laugh. The sound of it maddened Michael, and his bold blue eyes blazed as he began to talk to the Princess. His naturally easy manners made him able to carry on some kind of a conversation, but his whole attention was fixed upon the whereabouts of Sabine. She was with Henry, of course, behind that Spanish leather screen. He hardly even noticed that Moravia was a very pretty woman, most wonderfully dressed; but he felt she was a powerful unit in his game of getting Sabine to Arranstoun, and so he endeavored to make himself agreeable to her.

Presently, in the general move, Lord Fordyce and his lady love emerged with two other people they had been talking to, and Henry came up to Michael with outstretched hand.

He was awfully glad to see him, he said. Then this estranged husband and wife were face to face.

It was a wonderful moment for both of them, and with all the schooling that each one had been through, it was extremely difficult to behave naturally. Michael did not fight with himself, except to keep from all outward expression; he knew he was simply overcome with emotion; but Sabine continued to throw dust in her own eyes. The sudden wild beating of her heart she put down to every other reason but the true one. It was most wrong of Michael to have come to this party; but it was, of course, done out of bravado to show her that she did not matter to him at all--so with supreme sangfroid she greeted him casually, and then turned eyes of tenderness to Henry.

"You were going to show me the miniatures in the next room, Lord Fordyce--were you not?" she said, sweetly, and took a step on toward the door, leaving Michael with pain and rage for company.

She had never allowed Henry to kiss her since that one occasion at Heronac. It was not as it should be, she affirmed--until she were free and really engaged to him, she prayed him to behave always only as a friend. Lord Fordyce acquiesced, as he would have done to any penance she chose to impose upon him, and in his secret thoughts rather respected her for her decision; he was then more than delighted when she put her slender hand upon his arm with possessive familiarity as soon as they had reached the anteroom where the collection of miniatures were kept; but he did not know that she was aware that Michael stood where he could see them through the archway.

"My darling!" and he lifted the white fingers to his lips. Sabine had particularly beautiful hands, and they were his delight. She never wore any rings--only her wedding-ring and the one great pearl Henry had persuaded her to let him give her, but this was on her right hand.

"It would mean nothing for me to have it on the left one--while that bar of gold is there," she had told him. "I will only take it if you let me have it as a gage of friendship," and as ever he agreed. He was so pa.s.sionately in love with her, there was nothing in the world he would not have done or left undone to please her. His eye followed her always with rapture, and her slightest wish was instantly obeyed. Sabine was naturally an autocrat, and, but for the great generosity of her spirit, might have made him suffer considerably, but she did not, being consistently gentle and sweet.

"My darling!" Henry repeated, in the little anteroom, while his fond eyes devoured her face. "Sometimes I love you so it frightens me--My G.o.d, if anything were to take you from me now, I do not think I could bear it."

Sabine shivered as she bent down to look at a case of Cosways in a show table.