The Man and the Moment

Chapter 14

In the morning before they left Heronac, Sabine's elderly maid, Simone,

came to her with the face she always wore when her speech might contain

any reference to the past. She had been with Sabine ever since the week

after her marriage, and was a widow and a Parisian, with a kind and

motherly heart.

"Will madame take the blue despatch-box with her as usual?" she asked.

Sabine hesitated for a second. She had never gone anywhere without it in

all those five years--but now everything was changed. It might be wiser

to leave it safely at Heronac. Then her eyes fell upon it, and a slight

shudder came over her of the kind which people describe as "a goose

walking over your grave."

No, she could not leave it behind.

"I will take it, Simone."

"As madame wishes," and the maid went on her way.

* * * * *

When Sabine had reached London late on that evening in the June of 1907

on her leaving Scotland she found, in response to the wire she had sent

him from Edinburgh, Mr. Parsons waiting for her at the station, his

astonishment as great as his perturbation.

Her words had been few; her young mind had been firmly made up in the

train coming south. No one should ever know that there had been any

deviation from the original plan she had laid out for herself. With a

force of will marvellous in one of her tender years, she had controlled

her extreme emotion, and except that she looked very pale and seemed

very determined and quiet, there were no traces of the furnace through

which she had passed, in which had perished all her old conceptions of

existence, although as yet she realized nothing but that she wanted to

go away and to be free and forget her tremors, and presently join

Moravia.

The marriage had been perfectly legal, as the certificate showed, and

Mr. Parsons, whatever his personal feelings about the matter were, knew

that he had not the smallest control over her--and was bound to hand

over to her her money to do with as she pleased.

She merely told him the facts--that the marriage had been only an

arrangement to this end--Mr. Arranstoun having agreed before the

ceremony that this should be so--and that she wanted to engage a good

maid and go over to Paris as soon as possible, to see her friend the

Princess Torniloni.

She had decided in the train that her methods with all who opposed her

must be as they used to be with Sister Jeanne--a statement of her

intentions, and then silence and no explanations. Sister Jeanne had

given up all argument with her in her last year at the convent!

Mr. Parsons soon found that his words were falling upon deaf ears, and

were perfectly useless. She had cut herself adrift from her aunt and

uncle, whom she cordially disliked, leaving them a letter to tell them

that as she was now her own mistress, she never meant to trouble them or

Mr. Greenbank again, and she bid them adieu!

"It is not as if they had ever been the least kind to me," she did

condescend to inform the lawyer. "They couldn't bear me really--Samuel,

although he was such a poor creature, was far the best of them. Uncle

was only wanting my money for him, and Aunt Jemima detested me, and only

had me with her because Papa left in his will that she had to, or lose

his legacy. You can't think what I've learned of their meannesses in the

month I've know them!"

Thus Mr. Parsons had no further arguments to use--and felt that after

seeing her safe to his own hotel that night, and helping to engage a

suitable and responsible maid next day to travel with her, he could do

no more.

The question of the name troubled him most, and he almost refused to

agree that she should be known as Mrs. Howard.

"But I have told Mr. Arranstoun that I mean to be only that!" Sabine

exclaimed, "and he didn't mind, and"--here her violet eyes flashed--"I

_will not_ be anything else--so there!"

Mr. Parsons shrugged his shoulders; she was impossible to deal with, and

as he himself was obliged to return to America in the following week, he

felt the only thing to do was to let her have her way. And so well did

he guard his client's secret then and afterwards, that even Simone,

though a shrewd Frenchwoman, had never known that her mistress' name was

not really Howard. At the time of her being engaged she was just leaving

an American lady from the far West whom Mr. Parsons knew of, and she was

delighted to come as maid and almost chaperon to this sweet, but wilful

young lady.

So they had gone to Paris together, to order clothes--such a joyous

task--and to make herself forget those hours so terribly full of strange

emotion was all which occupied Sabine's mind at this period. Other

preoccupations came later; and it was then that she listened to Simone's

suggestion of going to San Francisco. The maid knew it well, and there

they spent several months in a quiet hotel. But they neither of them

cared much to remember those days, and nothing would have ever induced

Sabine to return thither.

* * * * *

She thought of these things now, as Simone left the room with the blue

case, but she put from her all disturbing remembrances on her journey to

Paris, and rushed into Moravia's arms, who was waiting for her in her

palatial apartment in the Avenue du Bois; they really loved one another,

these two women, as few sisters do.

"Sabine, you darling!" the Princess cried, while Girolamo, kept up an

hour later to welcome his god-mamma, screamed with joy.

"Now tell me everything, everything, pet!" Moravia demanded, as she

poured out the tea. "Has the divorce been settled? How soon will you be

free? When can you get married to this nice Englishman?"

"I don't exactly know, Morri--the law is such a strange thing; however,

my--husband--has agreed and begun to take the necessary steps by

requesting me to go back to him, which I have refused to do."

"You are looking perfectly splendid, dear. Having all that brain

stimulation evidently suits you. Wasn't the visit of Lord Fordyce

delightful in that romantic old castle? What did you do all the time?

and what was the friend like?--you did not tell me."

Sabine stirred her tea.

"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 sassy'--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 Hronac, 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 passion, 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 passion 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 assist 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.

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.