The Man and the Moment

Chapter 2

Mr. Arranstoun was extremely startled and annoyed, too, and before he

took in the situation, he had exclaimed, while Binko gave an ominous

growl of displeasure:

"Confound it--who is that! These are private rooms!" Then, seeing it was

a girl on the floor, he said in another voice: "Quiet, Binko--" and the

dog retired to his own basket under a distant table. "Oh, I beg your

pardon--but----"

The creature on the floor blinked at Michael with large, round, violet

eyes, but did not move, while she answered aggrievedly--with a very

faint accent, whether a little French or a little American, or a little

of both, he was not sure, only that it had something attractive about

it.

"You may well say 'but'! I did not mean to intrude upon your private

room--but I had to run away from Mr. Greenbank--he was so horrid--" here

she gasped a little for breath--"and I happened to see something like a

door ajar in the Gainsborough room, so I fled through it, and it

fastened after me with a snap--I could not open it again--and it was

pitch dark in that dreadful passage and not a scrap of air--I felt

suffocated, and I pushed on anywhere--and something gave way and I fell

in here--that's all----"

She rattled this out without a stop, and then stared at Michael with her

big, childish eyes, but did not attempt to rise from the floor.

He walked toward her and held out his hand, and with ceremonious and

ironical politeness, he began:

"May I not help you--I could offer you a chair----"

She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand.

"I've knocked myself against your nasty table--why do you have it in

that place!"

Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:

"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly

have had it moved."

"There is no use being sarcastic," the girl said, almost crying now. "It

hurts very much, and--and--I want to go home."

Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said

more sympathetically:

"I am very sorry--but where is home?"

The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock;

the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and

spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.

"She's American, of course, then," Michael said to himself, observing

these, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face."

She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, which

contained no shadow of _gne_ over the unusual situation, and then she

answered quite simply:

"I haven't a home, you know--I'm just staying at the Inn with Uncle

Mortimer and Aunt Jemima and--and--Mr. Greenbank--and we are tourists, I

suppose, and were looking at the pictures--when--when I had to run

away."

Michael felt a little piqued with curiosity; she was a diversion after

his perplexing, irritating meditations.

"It would be so interesting to hear why you ran away--the whole story?"

he suggested.

The girl turned her head and looked out of the window, showing a dear

little baby profile, and masses of light brown hair rolled up anyhow at

the back. She did not look older than seventeen at the outside, and was

peculiarly childish and slender for that.

"But I should have to tell you from the beginning, and it is so

long--and you are a stranger."

Michael drew another chair nearer to her, and sat down, while his manner

took on a note of grave, elderly concern, which rather belied the

twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Never mind that--I am sympathetic, and I am your host--and, by

Jove!--won't you have some tea! You look awfully tired and--dusty," and

he rang the bell, and then reseated himself. "See, to be quite orthodox,

we will make our own introduction--I am Michael Arranstoun--and you

are----?"

The girl rose and made him a polite bow. "I am Sabine Delburg," she

announced. He bowed also--and then she went into a peal of silvery

laughter that seemed to contain all the glad notes of spring and youth.

"Oh, this is fun! and I--I should like some tea!" She caught sight of

herself in an old mirror, which stood upon a commode. "Goodness, what a

guy I look! Why didn't you tell me that my hat was crooked!" She settled

it straight, and began searching for a handkerchief up her sleeve and in

her belt, but none was to be found.

So Mr. Arranstoun handed her a clean one he chanced to have in his

pocket. "I expect you want to wipe the smudge of dirt off your face," he

hazarded.

She took it laughing, and showing an even row of beautiful teeth between

red, full baby lips.

"You are the owner of this castle," she went on, as she gave firm rubs

at the velvet pink cheeks. "That must be nice. You can do what you like,

I suppose," and here a sigh of regret escaped and made her voice lower.

"I wish I _could_," Mr. Arranstoun answered feelingly.

"Well, if I were _a man_, I would!"

"What would you do?"

She turned and faced him, while she said, with extreme solemnity:

"I should never marry Mr. Greenbank."

Michael laughed.

"I don't suppose you would if you were a man!" At this moment, a footman

answered the bell. "Bring tea, please," his master ordered, inwardly

amused at the servant's astonished face, and then when they were alone

again, he continued his sympathetic questioning.

"Who is Mr. Greenbank? You had to flee from him--you said he was horrid,

I believe?"

Miss Delburg had removed her hat, and was trying to tidy her hair before

readjusting it; she had the hat-pin in her mouth, but took it out to

answer vehemently:

"So he is, a pig! And I went and got engaged to him this morning! You

see," turning to the glass again, quite unembarrassed, "I can't get my

money until I am married--and Uncle is so disagreeable, and Aunt Jemima

nags all day long, and it was left in Papa's will that I was to live

with them--and I don't come of age until I am twenty-one, but I can get

the money directly if I marry--I was seventeen in May, and of course no

one could stand it till twenty-one! Mr. Greenbank is the only person

who has asked me, and Aunt Jemima says no one else ever will! I have

been out of the Convent for a whole month, and I can't bear it."

Michael was beginning really to enjoy himself. She was something so

fresh, so entirely different to anything he had ever seen in his life

before. There was nothing of shyness or awkwardness in her manner, as

any English girl would have shown. She was absolutely at ease, with a

childish, confiding innocence which he saw plainly was real, and not put

on for his benefit. It was almost incredible in these up-to-date days. A

most engaging morsel of seventeen summers, he decided, as he answered

with over-grave concern:

"What a hard fate!--but you have not told me yet why you ran away!"

The girl had finished her toilet by now, and reseated herself with a

grown-up air in the big armchair.

"Oh! well, he was just--horrid--that was all," and then abruptly turning

the conversation, "It is a nice place you have here, and it does feel

lovely doing something wrong like this--having tea with you, I mean. You

know, I have never spoken to a young man before. The Nuns always told us

they were dreadful creatures--but you don't look so bad--" and she

examined her host critically.

Michael accepted the implied appreciation.

"What is Mr. Greenbank, then?"

The silver laugh rang out again, while she jumped up and peeped from

the window into the courtyard.

"Samuel--he's only a thing! Oh! Uncle and Aunt would be so angry if they

could see me here! And I expect they are all in a fine fuss now to know

what has happened to me! They never saw me go through the door, and I

hope they think that I've committed suicide out of one of the windows.

Look!" and she danced excitedly, "there is Uncle talking to the

commissionaire. Oh, what fun!"

Mr. Arranstoun peeped, too--and saw a spare, elderly American of grim

appearance in anxious confab with Alexander Armstrong.

The whole situation struck him as delightful, and he laughed gaily,

while he suggested: "You are perhaps rather a difficult charge?"

Miss Delburg resented this at once.

"What an idea! How would you like to marry Mr. Greenbank, or stay with

Aunt Jemima for four years!"

"Well, you see, I can't contemplate it, as I am not a girl!"

Again those white teeth showed, and the violet eyes were suffused with

laughter.

"No! Of course not. How silly I am--but I mean, how would you care to be

forced to do something you did not like?"

Michael thought of his own fate.

"By Jove! I should hate it!"

"Well--you can understand me!"

Then the door opened, and the butler and footman brought in the tea,

eyeing their master's guest furtively, while they maintained that

superbly aloof manner of well-bred English servants. The pause their

entrance caused gave Mr. Arranstoun time to think, and an idea gradually

began to unfold itself in his brain--and unconsciously he took out, and

then replaced in his breast pocket, a mauve, closely-written letter,

while a frown of deep cogitation crept over his face.

Miss Delburg, for her part, was only thrilled with the sight of the very

agreeable tea, and after waiting a moment to see what her preoccupied

host would do when the servants left the room, hunger forced her to fall

to the temptation of a particularly appetizing chocolate cake, which she

surreptitiously seized, and began munching with the frank joy of a

child.

"I do love them!" she sighed, "and we never were allowed them, only once

a month after Moravia Cloudwater got that awful toothache, and had to

have a big grinder pulled out."

Michael was paying no attention to her; he had walked rapidly up and

down the room once or twice, much to her astonishment.

At last he spoke.

"I have an idea--but first let me give you some tea--No--do help

yourself," then he paused awkwardly, and she at once proceeded to fill

her cup.

Binko had condescended to emerge from his basket under the table.

Tea-time was an hour when he allowed himself to take an interest in

human beings.

"Oh! you darling!" the girl cried, putting down her cup. "You fat,

lovely, wrinkly darling!"

"He is a nice dog," his master admitted; his voice was actually

nervous--and he pulled Binko to him by his solid, fleshy paws, while he

sat down in his chair again.

Miss Delburg had got back into her seat, where she munched a cake and

continued her tea. The chair was so deep and long that her little bits

of feet did not nearly reach the ground, but dangled there.

"Mayn't I pour you out some, too?" she asked, getting forward again. "I

do love to pour out--and do you take sugar--? I like lumps and lumps of

it."

"Oh--er--yes," Michael agreed absently, and then he went on with the

determined air of a person getting something off his chest. "I hardly

know how to say what I am thinking of, it sounds so strange. Listen--I

also must marry someone--anyone--to avert a fate I don't want--What do

you say to marrying _me_?"

The teapot came down into the tray with a bump, while the round,

childish eyes grew like saucers with astonishment.

"Oh!"

"I dare say it does surprise you--" Michael then hastened to add. "I

mean, we should only go through the ceremony, of course, and you could

get your money and I my freedom."

The girl clasped her hands round her knees.

"And I should never have to see you again?" in a glad voice of

comprehension.

Michael leaned forward nearer to her.

"Well--no--never, unless you wished."

Miss Delburg actually kicked her feet with delight.

"It is a perfectly splendid suggestion," she announced. "We could just

oblige one another in this way, and need never see or speak to each

other again. What made it come into your head? Do you really think we

could do that--Oh! how rude of me--I've forgotten to pour out your tea!"

"Never mind, talking about--our marriage--is more interesting," and Mr.

Arranstoun's blue eyes filled with mischievous appreciation of the

situation, even beyond the seriousness of the discussion he meant to

carry to an end. But this aspect did not so much concern Miss Delburg,

as that she had let slip a particular pleasure for the moment, that of

being allowed a teapot in her own hand, instead of being given a huge

bowl of milk with a drop of weak coffee mixed in it, and watching a like

fate fall upon her companions.

When this delightful business was accomplished to her satisfaction, her

sweet little round face a model of serious responsibility the while, she

handed Michael the cup and drew herself back once more into the depth

of the giant chair.

"I can't behave nicely in this great creature," she said, patting the

fat cushioned arms, "and the Mother Superior would be horribly shocked,

but don't let's mind. Now, do tell me something about this plan. You

see," gravely, "I really don't know the world very well yet--I have

always been at the Convent near Tours until a month ago--even in the

holidays, since I was seven--and the Sisters never told me anything

about outside, except that it was a place of pitfalls and that men were

dreadful creatures. I was very happy there, except I wanted to get out

all the time, and when I did and found Uncle and Aunt more tiresome than

the Sisters--there seemed no help for it--only Mr. Greenbank. So I

accepted him this morning. But--" and this awful thought caused her

whole countenance to change. "Now I come to think of it, the usual

getting married means you would have to stay with the man--wouldn't you?

And he wants--he wants to kiss--I mean," hurriedly, "you would be lovely

to marry because I would never have to see you again!"

Michael Arranstoun put his head back and laughed; she was perfectly

delicious--he began to dislike Mr. Greenbank.

His tea was quite forgotten.

"Er--of course not," he agreed. "Well, I could get a special license,

if you could tell me exactly how you stand, and your whole name and your

parents' names, and everything, and we could get their consent--but I

conclude your father, at least, is no longer alive."

Miss Delburg had a very grown-up air now.

"No, my parents are both dead," she told him. "Papa three years ago, and

Mamma for ages, and I never saw them much anyhow. They were always

travelling about, and Mamma was a Frenchwoman and a Catholic. Her family

did not speak to her because she married a Protestant and an American.

And the worry it was for me being brought up in a convent! because Papa

would have me a Protestant, so I do believe I have got a little religion

of my own that is not like either!"

"Yes?"

She continued her narrative in the intervals of the joy of munching

another cake.

"Papa was very rich, and it's all mine--Only it appears he did not

approve of the freedom of American women--and so tied it up so that I

can't get it until I am an old maid of twenty-one--or get married. Is it

not disgusting?"

Michael's thoughts were now concentrating upon the vital points.

"But have you not got a guardian or something?"

"Not exactly. Only an old lawyer person who is now in London. I have

seen Papa's will, and I know I can marry when and whom I like if I get

his consent--and he would give it in a minute, he is sick of me!"

"How fortunate!" Then restlessness seized him again, and he got up,

gulped down his tea, and began his pacing.

"I do think it would be a good plan, and we must do it if we can get

this person's leave--Yes, and do it quickly before we change our minds,

or something interferes. Everyone would think we were perfectly mad, but

as it suits us both, that is no one's business--Only--you are rather

young--and er--I don't know Greenbank. You are sure he is horrid?"

The girl clasped her hands together with force.

"Sure! I should think so--He wears glasses, and has nasty, scrabbly bits

of fur on his face, which he thinks is a beard, and he is pompous and he

talks like this," and she imitated a precise Boston voice. "'My dear

Sabine--have you considered,' and he is lanky--and Oh! I detest him, and

I can't imagine why I ever said I would marry him--but if I don't, what

_am_ I to do with Aunt Jemima for four years! I should die of it."

Michael sat on the edge of the table and looked at her long and deeply.

He took in the childish picture she made in the big chair. He had no

definite appreciation then of her charm, his mind was too fixed upon

what seemed a prospect of certain escape from Violet Hatfield and her

cunning thirty years of experience. This young thing could not interfere

with him, and divorces in Scotland were not impossible things--they

would both gain what they wanted for the time, and it was a fair

bargain. So he said, after a moment:

"I will go up to London to-morrow, and if it is as you say that you are

free to marry whom and when you will, I will try to get this old

lawyer's consent and a special license--But how about your Uncle? Has he

not any legal right over you?"

Miss Delburg laughed contentedly.

"Not in the least--only that I have to live with him until I am married.

Mr. Parsons--that's the lawyer's name--hates him, and he hates Mr.

Parsons. So I know Mr. Parsons will be delighted to spite him by giving

his consent, if you just say Uncle Mortimer is trying to force me into a

marriage against my will with his nephew--Samuel Greenbank is his

nephew, you know--no relation to me. It is Aunt Jemima who is Papa's

sister."

All this seemed quite convincing. Michael felt relieved.

"I see," he said. "Well, it appears simple enough. I believe I could be

back by Thursday, and I could have my chaplain and a friend of mine, and

we could get the affair over in the chapel--and then you can go back to

the Inn with your certificate--and I can go to Paris--free!" And his

thoughts added, "And even if poor Maurice does die soon, I need fear

nothing!"

Now that their two fates seemed settled, Miss Delburg got out of the

chair and stood up in a dignified way; her soft cheeks were the color of

a glowing pink rose, and her violet eyes shone with fun and excitement,

her little, irregular features and perfect teeth seemed to add to the

infantine aspect of the picture she made in her unfashionable pink

cotton frock. Dress had been strongly discouraged at the Convent, and

was looked upon by Aunt Jemima, a strict New Englander, as a snare of

the devil, but even the garment, in the selecting of which she had had

no hand, seemed to hang with grace upon the child's slim figure.

Not a doubt as to the future clouded her thoughts; it was all a glorious

piece of fun, and of all the daring tricks she had perpetrated at the

Convent to get chocolates, or climb a tree, or have a midnight orgy of

cake and sirop, none had been so exciting as this--to go through the

ceremony of marriage and be free for life!

Her education had been of the most elementary, and the whole aim of

those placed over her had been to keep her as innocent and ignorant as a

child of ten. Not a single problem of life had ever presented itself to

her naturally intelligent mind. She had read no books, conversed with no

grown-up people, played with no one but her companions, three American

girls and a few French ones, and the simple Nuns. And since her

emancipation, she had but wandered in the English lakes with her uncle

and aunt and Samuel Greenbank, and so had come to Arranstoun like any

other tourist to see this famous castle still inhabited after eleven

hundred years.

In these days of women giving daily proof of their capability for

irritating mischief, if not of their ability to rule nations, Sabine

Delburg was a very unique being, and could not have existed but for a

combination of rare circumstances, as she was half American and half

French and had inherited the quick understanding of both nations. But

from the age of seven, she had never seen the outside world. It is not

my place, in any case, to explain what she was or was not. The creature,

with all her faults and charms, is there to speak for herself--and if

you, my friend, who are reading this tale on a summer's day do not feel

you want to hear any more of what happened to these two young things, by

all means put down the book and go your way!

So let us get back to Mr. Arranstoun's sitting-room and the June

afternoon, and we shall hear Miss Delburg saying, in her childish voice

of joy:

"Nothing could be better--I always did like doing mad things. It will be

the greatest fun! Think of their faces when I prance in and say I am

married! Then I will snap my fingers at them and go off and see the

world."

Michael knelt upon a low old _prie dieu_ which was near, and looked into

her face--while he asked, whimsically:

"I do wonder where you will begin."

Miss Delburg now sat upon the edge of the table; this was a grave

question and must be answered at leisure, though without indecision.

"Oh, I know," she announced. "There was my great friend, Moravia

Cloudwater, at the Convent. She was older than me, and went to Paris

with her father and married an Italian prince last year. I have heard

from her since, and she has often wanted me to go and stay with her in

Rome--and I shall now. Morri and I are the dearest friends--and her

things did look lovely the day she came to see us at Tours--with the

prince's coronet on them--" and then the first shadow came to her

contentment. "That is the only pity about you--even with a castle, you

haven't a coronet, I suppose?" regretfully. "I should have liked one on

my handkerchiefs and note-paper."

Michael felt his shortcomings.

"The title was taken away when we followed Prince Charlie and we only

got back the land by the skin of our teeth after an awful business so I

am afraid I cannot do that for you--but perhaps," consolingly, "you will

have better luck next time."

This brought some comfort.

"Why, of course! we can get a divorce--as soon as we want. Moravia had

an aunt, who simply went to Sioux Falls and got one at once and married

someone else, so it's not the least trouble. Oh, I am glad you have

thought of this plan. It is clever of you!"

Mr. Arranstoun felt that he was becoming rather too interested in

his--_fiance_ and time was passing. Her family might discover where she

was--or Henry might return; he must clinch matters finally.

"I think we must come to business details now," he said. "Had you not

better write a letter to Mr. Parsons that I could take, stating your

wishes; and will you also write down upon another piece of paper all the

details of your name, age--and so forth----"

He now showed her his writing-table and gave her paper and pens to

choose from.

She sat down gravely, and put her hands to her head as one thinking

hard. Then she began rapidly to write--while Mr. Arranstoun watched her

from the hearth-rug, to where he had retired.

She evidently wrote out the statistics required first, and then began

her letter. And at last she turned a rogue's face with a perplexed frown

on it, while she bit her pen.

"How do you spell indigenous, please?"

He started forward.

"'Indigenous'?--what a grand word!--i-n-d-i-g-e-n-o-u-s."

"One has to be grand when writing business letters," she told him,

condescendingly, and then finished her missive.

"There--that will do! Now listen!"

She got up and stood with the sheet in her hand, and read off the

remarkable document without worrying much about stops or commas.

"Dear Mr. Parsons:

"Papa said I could marry who I wanted to provided that he was

decent, so please give your written consent to the _grand seigneur_

who brings this. His name is Arranstoun, and he is indigenous to

this Castle, and really an aristocrat who papa and mamma would have

approved of, although he unfortunately has no title----"

"I had to put in that, you see," and she looked up explainingly,

"because it sounds so ordinary if he'd never heard of Arranstoun--we

wouldn't have, only Uncle Mortimer was looking out for old ruins to

visit--well," and she continued her recital, while Michael lowered his

head to hide the smile in his eyes.

"We wish to get married on Thursday so please be quick about the

consent, as Uncle Mortimer wants me to marry his nephew, Samuel

Greenbank, who I hate. Agree, sir, the expression of my sentiments,

the most distinguished

"Sabine Delburg."

"P.S. I will want all my money, 50,000 dollars a year I believe it

is, on Friday morning."

Then she looked up with pride.

"Don't you think that will do?"

Michael was overcome--his voice shook with enchanted mirth.

"Admirably," he assured her, with what solemnity he could.

Sabine seemed thoroughly satisfied with herself.

"That's all right, then. Now I must be off, or they will be coming to

look for me, and that would be a bore."

"But we have not made all the arrangements for our wedding." The

prospective bridegroom thought it prudent to remind her. "When can you

come on Thursday? My train gets in about six."

"Thursday," and she contracted her dark eyebrows. "Let me see--Yes, we

are staying until Saturday to see the remains of Elbank Monastery--but I

don't know how I can slip away, unless--only it would be so late. I

could say I had a headache and go to bed early without dinner, and get

here about eight while they were having theirs. It is still quite

light--I often had to pretend things at the Convent to get a moment's

peace."

Michael reflected.

"Better not chance eight--as you say it is quite light then and they

might see you. Slip out of the hotel at nine. The park gate is, as you

know, right across the road. I will wait for you inside, and we can walk

here in a few minutes--and come up these balcony steps--and the chapel

is down that passage--through this door. See."

He went and opened the door, and she followed him--talking as she

walked.

"Nine! Oh! that is late--I have never been out so late before--but it

can't matter--just this once--can it? And here in the north it is so

funny; it is light at nine, too! Perhaps it would be safest." Then,

peering down the vaulted passage and drawing back, "It is a gloomy hole

to get married in!"

"You won't say so when you see the chapel itself," he reassured her. "It

is rather a beautiful place. Whenever any of my ancestors committed a

particularly atrocious raid, and wanted to be absolved for their sins,

they put in a window or a painting or carving. The family was Catholic

until my grandfather's time, and then High Church, so the glories have

remained untouched."

Sabine kept close to him as they walked, as a child afraid of the dark

would have done. It seemed to her too like her recent experience of the

secret passage, and then she exclaimed in a voice of frank awe and

admiration, when he opened the nail-studded, iron-bound door at the end:

"Oh! how divine!"

And it was indeed. A gem of the finest period of early Gothic

architecture, adorned with all trophies which love, fear and contrition

could compel from the art of the ages. Glorious colored lights swept

down in shafts from matchless stained glass, and the high altar was a

blaze of richness, while beautiful paintings and tapestries covered the

walls.

It was gorgeous and sumptuous, and unlike anything else in England or

Scotland. It might have been the private chapel of a proud, voluptuous

Cardinal in Rome's great days.

"Why is that one little window plain?" Sabine asked.

Then Michael answered with a cynical note in his voice:

"It is left for me--I, who am the last of them, to put up some expiatory

offering, I expect. Rapine and violence are in the blood," and then he

laughed lightly, and led her back through the gloom to his sitting-room.

There was a strange, fierce light in his bright blue eyes, which the

child-woman did not see, and which, if she had perceived, she would not

have understood any more than he understood it himself--for no concrete

thought had yet come to him about the future. Only, there underneath was

that mighty force, relentless, inexorable, of heredity, causing the

instinct which had dominated the Arranstouns for eleven hundred years.

He did not seek to detain his guest and promised bride--but, with great

courtesy, he showed her the way down the stairs of the lawn, and so

through the postern into the park, and he watched her slender form trip

off towards the gate which was opposite the Inn, her last words ringing

in his ears in answer to his final question.

"No, I shall not fail--I will leave the Crown at nine o'clock exactly on

Thursday."

Then turning, he retraced his steps to his sitting-room, and there found

Henry Fordyce returned.

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.