The Man and the Moment

Chapter 5

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FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS

Mr. Elias Cloudwater came up the steps of the Savoy Hotel at Carlsbad,

and called to the Arab who was waiting about:

"Has the Princess come in from her drive yet?"

He was informed that she had not, and he sat down in the verandah to

wait. He was both an American gentleman and an American father,

therefore he was accustomed to waiting for his women folk and did not

fidget. He read the _New York Herald_, and when he had devoured the

share list, he glanced at the society news and read that, among others

who were expected at the Bohemian health resort that day, was Lord

Fordyce, motoring, for a stay of three weeks for the cure.

He did not know this gentleman personally, and the fact would not have

arrested his attention at all only that he chanced to be interested in

English politics. He wondered vaguely if he would be an agreeable

acquisition to the place, and then turned to more thrilling things.

Presently a slender young woman came down the path through the woods and

leisurely entered the gate. Mr. Cloudwater watched her, and a kindly

smile lit his face. He thought how pretty she was, and how glad he was

that she had joined Moravia and himself again this summer. The months

when she went off by herself to her house in Brittany always seemed very

long. He saw her coming from far enough to be able to take in every

detail about her. Extreme slenderness and extreme grace were her

distinctive marks. The face was childish and rounded in outline, but

when you looked into the violet eyes there was some shadow of a story

hidden there. She was about twenty-two years old, and was certainly not

at Carlsbad for any reasons of cure, for her glowing complexion told a

tale of radiant health.

Her white clothes were absolutely perfect in their simplicity, and so

was her air of unconcern and indifference. "The enigma" her friends

often called her. She seemed so frank and simple, and no one ever got

beyond the wall of what she was really thinking--what did she do with

her life? It seemed ridiculous that any one so rich and attractive and

young should care to pass long periods of time at a wild spot near

Finisterre, in an old chteau perched upon the rocks, completely alone

but for an elderly female companion.

There was, of course, some hidden tragedy about her husband--who was a

raging lunatic or an inebriate shut up somewhere--perhaps there! They

had had to part at once--he had gone mad on the wedding journey, some

believed, but others said this was not at all the case, and that she had

married an Indian chief and then parted from him immediately in

America--finding out the horror of being wedded to a savage. No one knew

anything for a fact, only that when she did come into the civilized

world, it was always with the Princess Torniloni and her father, who, if

they knew the truth of Mrs. Howard's story, never gave it away. Men

swarmed around her, but she appeared completely unconcerned and friendly

with them all, and not even the most envious of the other Americans who

were trying to climb into Princess Torniloni's exclusive society had

ever been able to make up any scandals about her.

"I have had such an enchanting walk, Clowdy, dear," the slim young woman

said as she sat down in a basket-chair near Mr. Cloudwater. "I am so

glad we came here, aren't you?--and I am sure it will do Moravia no end

of good. She passed me as I was coming from the Aberg on her way to Hans

Heiling, so she will not be in yet. Let us have tea."

The Arab called the waiter, who brought it to them. One or two other

little groups were having some, too, but Mr. Cloudwater's party were

singularly ungregarious, and avoided making acquaintances in hotels. He

and Mrs. Howard chatted alone together over theirs for about half an

hour. Presently there was the noise of a motor arriving. It whirled into

the gate and stopped where they usually do, a little at one side. It

was very dusty and travel-stained, and beside the chauffeur there got

out a tall, fair Englishman. The personnel of the hotel came forward to

meet him with empressement, and as he passed where Mr. Cloudwater and

Mrs. Howard were sitting, they heard him say:

"My servant brought the luggage by train this morning, so I suppose the

rooms are ready."

"They are a wonderful race," Mr. Cloudwater remarked, "aren't they,

Sabine. I never can understand why you should so persistently avoid

them--they really have much more in common with ourselves than Latins."

"That is why perhaps--one likes contrasts--and French and Russians, or

Germans, are far more intelligent. Every one to his taste!" and Mrs.

Howard smiled.

The Englishman came out again in a few minutes, and sitting down lazily,

as though he were alone upon the balcony terrace, he ordered some tea.

Not the remotest scrap of interest in his surroundings or companions lit

up his face. He might have been forty or forty-two, perhaps, but being

so fair he looked a good deal younger, and had a peculiar distinction of

his own.

"That is what I object to about them," Mrs. Howard remarked presently,

"their abominable arrogance. Look at that man. It is just as though

there was no one else on this balcony but himself--no one else exists

for him!"

"Why, Sabine, you are severe! He looks to me to be a pretty

considerably nice man--and he is only reading the paper as I have been

doing myself," Mr. Cloudwater rejoined. "Perhaps he is the English

nobleman who I read was expected to-day--Lord Fordyce, the paper

said--and wasn't that the name of rather a prominent English politician

who had to go into the Upper House last year when his father died--and

it was considered he would be a loss to the Commons?"

"I really don't know. I don't take the slightest interest in them or

their politics. Ah! here is Moravia----" and both rose to meet a very

charming lady who drove up in a victoria and got out.

She had all the perfection of detail which characterizes the very

best-dressed American woman--and she had every attraction except,

perhaps, a voice--but even that she knew how to modulate and disguise,

so that it was no wonder that the Princess Torniloni passed for one of

the most beautiful women in Rome or Paris, or Cairo or New York,

whenever she graced any of the cities with her presence. She was a

widow, too, and very rich. The Prince, her husband, had been dead for

nearly two years, and she was wearing grays and whites and mauves.

He had been a brute, too, but unlike her friend, Mrs. Howard's husband,

he had had the good taste to be killed riding in a steeplechase, and so

all went well, and the pretty Princess was free to wander the world over

with her indulgent father.

"It is just too lovely for words up in those woods, papa," she said,

"and I have had my tea in a dear little chlet restaurant. You did not

wait for me, I hope?"

They assured her they had not done so, and she sat down in a comfortable

chair. Her arrival caused a flutter among the other occupants of the

terrace, and even the Englishman glanced up. This group had at last made

some impression it would seem upon the retina of his eye, for he looked

deliberately at them and realized that the two women were quite worthy

of his scrutiny.

"But I hate Americans," he said to himself. "They are such actresses,

you never know where you are with them--these two, though, appear some

of the best."

Presently they went into the hotel, passing him very closely--and for a

second his eyes met the violet ones of Sabine Howard, and he was

conscious that he felt distinctly interested, much to his disgust.

But, after all, he was here for a cure and a rest, and he had always

believed in women as recreations.

His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant, and later he wrote

to his friend, Michael Arranstoun, loitering at Ostende:

The hotel is quite decent--and after your long sojourn in the

wilds, you will have an overdose of polo and expensive ladies and

baccarat. You had much better join me here at the end of the week.

There are two pretty women who would be quite your affair. They

have the next table, and neither of them can be taking the cure.

But Mr. Arranstoun, when he received this missive, had other things to

do. He had been out of England, and indeed Europe, for nearly five

years--having, in the summer of 1907, joined a friend to explore the

innermost borders of China and Tibet, and there the passion for this

kind of thing had overtaken him, and his own home knew him no more.

Now, however, he had announced that he had returned for good, and

intended to spend the rest of his days at Arranstoun as a model

landlord.

He started this by playing polo at Ostende, where he had run across

Henry Fordyce. They had cordially grasped each other's hands, their

estrangement forgotten when face to face; and the only mention there had

been of the circumstances which had caused their parting were in a few

sentences.

"By Jove, Henry, it is five whole years since you thundered morals at me

and shook the dust of Arranstoun from your feet!"

"You did behave abominably, Michael--but I am awfully glad to see

you--and the scene at Ebbsworth, when Violet Hatfield read the notice in

the Scotsman of your marriage, made me feel you had been almost

justified in taking any course you could to make yourself safe. But how

about your wife? Have you ever seen her again?"

"No. My lawyer tells me I can divorce her now for desertion. I should

have to make some pretence of asking her to return to me, he says, which

of course she would refuse to do--and then both can be free, but, for my

part, I am not hankering after freedom much--I do very well as I am--and

I always cherish a rather tender recollection of her."

[Illustration: "His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant"]

Henry laughed.

"I have often pictured that wedding," he said, "and the little bride

going off with her certificate and your name all alone. No family turned

up awkwardly at the last moment to mar things; she left safely after the

ceremony, eh?"

Michael looked away suddenly, and then answered with overdone unconcern:

"Yes--soon after the ceremony."

"I do wonder you had no curiosity to investigate her character further!"

"I had--but she did not appreciate my interest--and--after she had

gone--I was rather in a bad temper, and I reasoned myself into believing

she was probably right--also just then I wanted to join Latimer

Berkeley's expedition to China. I remember, his letter about it came by

the next morning's post--so I went--but do you know, Henry, I believe

that little girl made some lasting impression upon me. I believe, if she

had stayed, I should have been frantically in love with her--but she

went, so there it is!"

"Why don't you try to find her?" Henry asked.

"Perhaps I mean to some day. I have thought of doing so often, but

first China, and then one thing and another have stopped me--besides,

she may have fancied some other fellow by this time--the whole thing was

one of those colossal mistakes. If we could only have met

ordinarily--and not married in a hurry and then parted--like that."

"Has it never struck you she was rather young to be left to drift by

herself?"

"Yes, often--" Then Michael grew a little constrained. "I believe I

behaved like the most impossible brute, Henry--in marrying her at all as

you said--but I would like to make it up to her some day--and I suppose

if, by chance, she has taken a fancy to someone else by this time and

wants to be free of me, I ought to divorce her--but, by Heaven, I

believe I should hate that!"

"You dog in the manger!"

"Yes, I am----"

And so the subject had ended.

And now Henry, third Lord Fordyce, was taking a mild cure at Carlsbad,

and had decided that in his leisure moments he would begin to write a

book--a project which had long simmered in his brain; but after two days

of sitting by the American party at each meal, a very strong desire to

converse with them--especially the one with the strange violet

eyes--overcame him; and with deliberate intention he scraped

acquaintance with Mr. Cloudwater in the exercise room of the Kaiserbad,

who, with polite ceremony, presented him that evening to his daughter

and her friend.

Sabine had been particularly silent and irritating, Moravia thought, and

as they went up to bed she scolded her about it.

"He is a perfect darling, Sabine," she declared, "and will do splendidly

to take walks with us and make the fourth. He is so lazy and English and

phlegmatic--I'd like to make him crazy with love--but he looked at you,

you little witch, not at me at all."

"You are welcome to him, Morri--I don't care for Englishmen. Good-night,

pet," and Mrs. Howard kissed her friend, and going in to her room, she

shut the door.

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