The Man and the Moment Part 25

Henry was, of course, deeply interested.

"She is sufficiently grave and dignified now!" he responded in admiration, his worshiping eyes turned in Sabine's direction; but it was only when she moved in a certain way that he could see her, through the flowers. Michael he saw plainly all the time, and perceived that he was not boring himself.

"Her character, then, would seem to have been rather like my friend's, Michael Arranstoun's," he remarked. "They have both such an astonishing, penetrating vitality, one would almost know when either of them was in the room even if one could not see them."

"He is awfully good-looking and attractive, your friend," Moravia returned. "I have never seen such bold, devil-may-care blue eyes. I suppose women adore him; I personally have got over my interest in that sort of man. I much prefer courteous and more diffident creatures."

Lord Fordyce smiled.

"Yes, I believe women spoil Michael terribly, and he is perfectly ruthless with them, too; but I understand that they like that sort of thing."

"Yes--most of them do. It is the simple demonstration of strength which allures them. You see, man was meant to be strong," and Moravia laughed softly, "wasn't he? He was not designed in the scheme of things to be a soft, silky-voiced creature like Cranley Beaton, for instance--talking gossip and handing tea-cups; he was just intended to be a fierce, great hunter, rushing round killing his food and capturing his mate; and women have remained such primitive unspoiled darlings, they can still be dominated by these lovely qualities--when they have a chance to see them. But, alas! half the men have become so awfully civilized, they haven't a sc.r.a.p of this delightful, aboriginal force left!"

"I thought you said you personally preferred more diffident creatures,"

and Lord Fordyce smiled whimsically.

"So I do now--I said I had got over my interest in these savages--but, of course, I liked them once, as we all do. It is one of our fatal stages that we have to pa.s.s through, like snakes changing their skins; and it makes many of us during the time lay up for ourselves all sorts of regrets."

Henry sought eagerly through the flowers his beloved's face. Had she, too, pa.s.sed through this stage--or was it to come? He asked himself this question a little anxiously, and then he remembered the words of Pere Anselme, and an unrest grew in his heart. The Princess saw that some shadow had gathered upon his brow, and guessed, since she knew that his thoughts in general turned that way, that it must be something to do with Sabine--so she said:

"Sabine and I have come through our happinesses, I trust, since Convent days--and what we must hope for now is an Indian summer."

Henry turned rather wistful eyes to her.

"An Indian summer!" he exclaimed. "A peaceful, beautiful warmth after the riotous joy of the real blazing June! Tell me about it?"

Moravia sighed softly.

"It is the land where the souls who have gone through the fire of pain live in peace and quiet happiness, content to glow a little before the frosts of age come to quench all pa.s.sion and pleasure."

Henry looked down at the grapes on his plate.

"There is autumn afterwards," he reasoned, "which is full of richness and glorious fruit. May we not look forward to that? But yet I know that we all deceive ourselves and live in what may be only a fool's paradise"--and then it was that he caught sight of his adored, as she bent forward after her rebuke to Michael--and with a burst of feeling in his controlled voice, he cried: "But who would forego his fool's paradise!"--and then he took in the fact that some unusual current of emotion must have been pa.s.sing between the two--and his heart gave a great bound of foreboding.

For the keenness of his perceptions and his honesty of judgment made him see that they were strangely suited to one another--his darling and his friend--so strong and vital and young.

CHAPTER XVII

The ball was going splendidly and everyone seemed to be in wild form.

Sabine had danced with an excitement in her veins which she could not control. Had there been no music or lights, she might just have felt frightfully disturbed and unhappy, but as it was she was only conscious of excitement. Lord Fordyce was above showing jealousy, and was content that she seemed to be enjoying herself, and did not appear unwilling to return to him quite frequently and walk about the room or sit down.

"You are looking so supremely bewitching, my darling," he told her. "I feel it is selfish of me to keep you away from the gay dances, you are so young and sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself. Have you not danced with Michael Arranstoun yet? I saw you were getting on with him splendidly at dinner--he used to be a great dancer before he went off to foreign parts."

"No, I have not spoken to him even," she answered, with what indifference she could.

"What was he saying just before you left the dining-room which made you look so haughty, dearest? He was not impertinent to you, I hope," and Henry frowned a little at the thought.

Sabine played with her fan--she was feeling inexpressibly mean.

"No--not in the least--we were discussing someone we had both known--long ago--she is dead now. I may have been a little annoyed at what he said. Oh! is that a Scotch reel they are going to begin?"

How glad she was of this diversion! She knew she had been capricious with Lord Fordyce once or twice during the evening. She was greatly perturbed. Oh! Why had she not had the courage to be her usual, honest self, and have told him immediately at Heronac who her husband really was. She was in a false position, ashamed of her deceit and surrounded by a net-work of acted lies; and all through everything there was a pa.s.sionate longing to speak to Michael again, and to be near him once more as at dinner. She had been conscious of everything that he did--of whom he had danced with--Moravia for several times--and now she knew that he was not in the ball-room.

Nothing could exceed Henry's gentleness and goodness to her. He watched her moods and put up with her caprices; that something unusual had disturbed her he felt, but what it could be he was unable to guess.

Sabine was aware that other women were envying her for the attention showered upon her by this much sought after man. She tried to a.s.sure herself how fortunate she was, and now got Henry to tell her once more of things about his home. It was in the fairest part of Kent, and they had often talked of the wonderful garden they would have in that fertile country sheltered from all wind, and she knew that as soon as the divorce was over, she and Moravia would go and stay there and look over it all, and meet his mother, which meeting had not yet been arranged.

For some unknown reason nothing would induce her to go now.

"I would rather see it for the first time, Henry, when I am engaged to you. Now I should be an ordinary visitor--can't you understand?"

And he had said that he could. It always thrilled him when she appeared to take an interest in his home.

They talked now about it--and how he would so love her to choose her own rooms and have them arranged as she liked. Then he made pictures of their life together there, and as he spoke her heart seemed to sink and become heavier every moment, until at last she could bear no more.

It was about two dances before supper, into which she had promised to go with him. She would get away to her room now and be alone until then.

She must pull herself together and act with common sense.

She told him that she had to settle her hair, which had become disarranged, and saying he would wait for her he left her at the foot of the smaller staircase, which led in a roundabout way to her and Moravia's rooms. She had not wanted to pa.s.s through the great hall where quant.i.ties of people were sitting out. She was just crossing the corridor where the bachelors were lodged, when she almost ran into the arms of Michael Arranstoun.

He stopped short and apologized--and then he said:

"I was coming to find you--there is something I must say to you. Mrs.

Forster's sitting-room is close here--will you come with me in there for a moment; we can be alone."

Sabine hesitated. She looked up at him, so tall and masterful and astonishingly handsome--and then she obeyed him meekly, and he led the way into a cosy little room unlit except for a glowing ma.s.s of coals.

Michael turned on one electric lamp, and they both went over to the chimney piece.

Intense excitement and emotion filled them, but while he tried to search her face with his pa.s.sionate eyes, she looked into the fire with lowered head.

Then he spoke almost fiercely:

"I cannot try to guess what caused you to pretend you did not recognize me when we met at Heronac. That first false step has created all this hopeless tangle. I will not judge you, but only blame my own weakness in falling in with your plan." He clasped his hands together rather wildly.

"I was so stunned with surprise to see you, and overcome with the knowledge that I had just given Henry my word of honor that I would not interfere with him, or make love to the lady we were going to see--a Mrs. Howard, who was married to a ruffian of an American husband shut up in a madhouse or home for inebriates! My G.o.d! Lies from the very beginning," and he gave a little laugh. "I had forgotten for the moment that you had said you would call yourself by that name, but I remembered it afterwards. You had not decided if you would be a widow--do you recollect?--and you wanted a coronet for your handkerchiefs and note-paper!"

Sabine quivered under the lash of his scorn.

"You maddened me that afternoon and at dinner, too," he went on, "and I made resolutions and then broke them. But each time I did, I was filled with remorse and contrition about Henry--and I am ashamed to confess it, I was madly jealous, too. At last, I saw you in the garden together and knew I ought to go at once."

Here his voice broke a little, and he unclasped his hands. She raised her head defiantly now, and flashed back at him:

"I understand you had admitted to being a dog in the manger--you were always an animal of sorts!"

This told, he grew paler, and into his blue eyes there came a look of pain.