The Man and the Moment Part 31

"It is Michael Arranstoun," Henry said in a voice strangled and altered with suffering. "I see every link in the chain--but, O G.o.d! why have they deceived me? What can it mean? What hideous, fiendish cruelty! And Michael was my old friend."

A wild rage and resentment convulsed him. He only felt that he wished to kill both these traitors, who had tricked him and destroyed his beliefs and his happiness. Ghastly thoughts that there might be further disclosures of more shameful deceptions to come shook him. He was trembling with pa.s.sion--and then the priest said something in his grave, quiet voice which almost stunned him.

"Has it been done in cruelty, my son? You must examine well the facts before you a.s.sert that. You must not forget that whoever the husband may be, he has consented to divorce her, and she is now going to give herself to you. Is that cruelty, my son? Or is it a fine keeping to a given word? It looks to me more like a n.o.ble sacrifice, unless the Seigneur of Arranstoun was aware before he ever came here that Madame Howard was his wife."

Lord Fordyce controlled himself. This thing must be thought out.

"No, Michael could not have known it," after a moment or two he averred. "He even laughed over the name when I told it to him, and said he had a scapegrace cousin out in Arizona and wondered if the husband could be the same----"

Then further recollections came with a frightful stab of anguish, crushing all pa.s.sion and anger and leaving only a sensation of pain, for he remembered that his friend had given him his word of honor that he would not interfere with him in his love-making--and, indeed, would help him in every way he could, even to lending him Arranstoun for the honeymoon! That letter of his, too, when he had gone from Heronac, saying in it casually he hoped that he, Henry, thought that he had played the game!--Yes, it was all perfectly plain. Michael had come there in all innocence, and could not be blamed. He remembered numbers of things unnoticed at the time--his own talk with Sabine when he had discussed Michael's marriage--and this brought him up suddenly to her side of the question. Why, in heaven's name, had she not told him the truth at once? Why had she pretended not to recognize Michael? For, however Michael might have started, since he, Henry, was not looking at him, Sabine, whose face he had been gazing into all the while, had shown no faintest recognition of him. What a superb actress she must be!--or perhaps, having only seen him those two times in her life, for those short moments, she really did not recognize him then. The whole thing was so staggering in its hideous tragedy his brain almost refused to think; but he said this last thought aloud, and the priest's strange sudden silence struck even his numbed sense.

"She had only seen him for such a little while--they parted immediately after the wedding; it was merely an empty ceremony, you know. Why, then, should she have had any haunting memories of him?"

The Pere Anselme avoided answering this question by asking another.

"You knew that the Seigneur of Arranstoun was wedded, it would seem. How was that?"

Then Henry told him the outline of Michael's story, and the cruel irony of fate in having made him himself leave the house before seeing Sabine struck them both.

"What can her reasons have been for not telling me all this time, Father?" the unhappy man asked at last, in a hopeless voice. "Can you in any way guess?"

The Pere Anselme mused for a moment.

"I have my own thoughts upon the matter, my son. We who live lonely lives very close to Nature get into the way of studying things. I have, as I told you, made some deductions, but, if you will permit me to give you some counsel, I would tell you to go back to the chateau now, with no _parti pris_, and seek her immediately, and get her to tell you the whole truth yourself. Of what good for you and me to speculate, since we neither of us know all the facts?--or even, if our suppositions are correct----" Then, as Lord Fordyce hesitated, he continued: "The time has pa.s.sed for reticence. There should be no more avoiding of feared subjects. Go, go, my son, and discover the entire truth."

"And what then!" The cry came from Henry's agonized heart. But the priest answered gravely:

"That is in the hand of G.o.d. My duty is done."

And so they returned in silence, the Pere Anselme praying fervently to himself. And when they reached the house, Lord Fordyce stumbled up the stone stairs heavily and knocked at the door of Sabine's sitting-room.

He had seen Moravia at her window in the inner building, and knew that this woman who held his life in her hand would be alone.

Then, in response to a gentle "_Entrez_" he opened the door and went in.

Sabine had been sitting at her writing-table, an open blue despatch-box at her side. She was at the far end of the great apartment, so that Henry had some way to go toward her in the gloom, as, but for the large lamp near her and the blazing wood fire at each end, there was no light in the vast room. She rose to meet him, a gentle smile upon her face, and then, when he came close to her, she realized that something had happened, and suddenly put her hand out to steady herself upon the back of a chair.

"Henry--what is it?" she said, in a very low voice. "Come, let us go over there and sit down," and she drew him to the same sofa where that very morning they had sat when she had let him kiss her. This thought was extra pain.

He was so very quiet he frightened her, and his gray eyes looked into hers with such a world of despair, but no reproach.

"Sabine," he commanded in a voice out of which had vanished all life and hope, "tell me the whole story, my dear love."

She clasped her hands convulsively--so the dreaded moment had come!

There would be no use in making any excuses or protestations, her duty now was to master herself and collect her words to tell him the truth.

The utter misery in his n.o.ble face wrung her heart, so that her voice trembled too much to speak at first; then she controlled it and began.

So all was told at last.

Then Henry took her two cold hands again and drew her up with him as he rose.

"Sabine," he said with deep emotion, his heart at breaking point, but all thought of himself put aside in the supreme unselfishness of his worship; "Sabine, to-morrow I will prove to you what true love means.

But now, my dearest, I will say good-night. I think I must go to my room for a little; this has been a tremendous shock."

He bent and kissed her forehead with reverence and blessing, as her father might have done, and, hiding all further emotion, he walked steadily from the room.

CHAPTER XXI

When Lord Fordyce found himself alone, it felt as if life itself must leave him, the agony of pain was so great, the fiendish irony of circ.u.mstances. It almost seemed that each time he had intended to do a good thing, he had been punished. He had left Arranstoun for the best motive, and so had not seen Sabine and thus saved himself from future pain; he had taken Michael to Heronac out of kindly friendship, and this had robbed him of his happiness. But, awful as the discovery was now, it was not half so terrible as it would have been if the truth had only come to him later, when Sabine had become his wife. He must be thankful for that. Things had always been inevitable; it was plain to be understood that she had loved Michael all along, and nothing he personally could have done with all his devotion could have changed this fact. He ought to have known that it was hopeless and that he was only living in a fool's paradise. Never once had he seen the light in her eyes for himself which sprang there even at the mention of Michael's name. What was this tremendous power this man possessed to so deeply affect women, to so greatly charm every one? Was it just "it," as the Princess had said? Anguish now fell upon Henry; there was no consolation anywhere to be found.

He went over again all the details of the story he had heard, and himself filled up the links in the chain. How brutal it was of Michael to have induced her to stay--even if she remained of her own accord--and then the frightful thoughtless recklessness of letting her go off afterwards just because he was angry! Wild fury blazed up against his old friend. The poor darling little girl to be left to suffer all alone!

Oh! how tender and pa.s.sionately devoted he would have been under the same circ.u.mstances. Would Michael ever make her happy or take proper care of her? He paced his room, his mind racked with pain. Every single turn of events came back to him, and his own incredible blindness. How had he been so unseeing? How, to begin with, had he not recalled the name of Sabine as being the one he had read long ago in the paper as that of the girl whom Michael had gone through the ceremony of marriage with? It had faded completely from his memory. Everything seemed to have combined to lead him on to predestined disaster and misery--even in Sabine's and Michael's combining to keep the matter secret from him not to cause him pain--all had augmented the suffering now. If--but there was no good in contemplating ifs--what he had to do was to think clearly as to what would be the wisest course to secure his darling's happiness. That must be his first consideration. After that, he must face his own cruel fate with what courage he could command.

Her happiness could only come through the divorce proceedings being stopped at once, and in her being free to go back to the man whom she loved. Then the aspect that Michael had been willing to do a really fine thing for the sake of friendship struck him--perhaps he was worthy of Sabine, after all; and they were young and absolutely suited to one another. No, the wickedness would have been if he, whose youth had pa.s.sed, had claimed her and come between. He was only now going through the same agony his friend must have done, and he had a stronger motive to help him, in the wish to secure the joy of this adored woman, whereas Michael knew he was condemning her to sorrow as well as himself, and had been strong enough to do it simply from honor and friendship. No, he had no right to think of him as brutal or not fine; and now it was for him, Henry, to bring back happiness to his darling and to his old friend.

He sat down in a chair beside the fire and set himself to think. To have to take some decided course came as a relief. He would go out into the village and telegraph to Michael to come to Heronac at once. He was in Paris, staying at the Ritz, he knew; he could be there to-morrow--on Christmas Day! Surely that was well, when peace and good-will towards men should be over all the earth--and he, Henry, would meet him at the house of the Pere Anselme and explain all to him, and then take him back to Sabine. He would not see her again until then.

He found telegraph forms on his writing-table and rapidly wrote out his message. "Come immediately by first train, meet me at house of Pere Anselme, a matter of gravest importance to you and Sabine," and he signed it "Fordyce." Then he firmly controlled himself and went off with it into the night.

The cold air struck his face and confronted him with its fierceness; the wind was getting up; to-morrow the waves would again be rough.

The village was not far away, and he soon had reached his goal and sent the telegram. Then he stopped at the _presbytere_. He must speak once more to the priest. The Pere Anselme led him in to his bare little parlor and drew him to the warm china stove. It was only two hours since they had parted, but Lord Fordyce looked like an old man.

"I have come to tell you, my Father," he said, "that I know all of the story now, and it is terrible enough; but I want you to help me to secure her happiness. Michael Arranstoun is her husband, as you supposed, and she loves him." The old priest nodded his head comprehendingly, and Henry went on. "They only parted to save me pain.

It was a tremendous sacrifice which, of course, I cannot accept. So now I have sent for him, and I want you to let me meet him here at your house, and explain everything to him to-morrow before he sees her. I hope, if he gets my telegram in time, he will catch the train from Paris at midnight to-night; it gets in about nine in the morning. Then they can be happy on Christmas Day."

"You have done n.o.bly, my son," and the Pere Anselme lifted his hand in blessing. "It is very merciful that this has been in time. You will not be permitted to suffer beyond your strength since you have done well.

The good G.o.d is beyond all things, just. My home is at your service--And how is she, our dear Dame d'Heronac? Does she know that her husband will come?"

"She knows nothing. I told her we should settle all questions to-morrow.

She offered to keep her word to me, the dear child."

"And she told you the whole story? She had the courage? Yes? That was fine of her, because she has never spoken of all her sorrows directly, even to me."

"She told me everything, Father. There are no secrets any more; and her story is a pitiful one, because she was so young."

"It is possible it has been well for them," the priest said meditatively, looking into the glowing fire in the stove whose door he had opened. "They were too young and undisciplined at first for happiness--they have come through so much suffering now they will cling to each other and joy and not let it slip from their hands. She is more suited to such a one as the Seigneur of Arranstoun than any other--there is a vigor of youth in her which must find expression. And it is something to be of n.o.ble blood, after all." Here he turned and looked contemplatively at Henry. "It makes one able to surmount anguish and remain a gentleman with manners, even at such a cruel crisis as this.

You have all my deep understanding and sympathy, my son. I, too, have pa.s.sed that way, and know your pain. But consolation will come. I find it here in the cure of souls--you will find it in your England, leading your fellow countrymen to finer ends. It is not for all of us, the glory of the dawn or the meridian, but we can all secure a sunset of blessed peace if we will." And then, as Henry wrung his thin old hand, he muttered with tenderness, "Good-night, and _pax vobisc.u.m_," while a moisture glistened in his keen black eyes.

And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into his little room, this thought going on with him: