The Man and the Moment

Chapter 4

An opalescence of soft light and peace and beauty was over the park of

Arranstoun on this June night of its master's wedding, and he walked

among the giant trees to the South Lodge gate, only a few hundred yards

from the postern, which he reached from his sitting-room. All had gone

well in London. Mr. Parsons had raised no objection, being indeed

greatly flattered at the proposed alliance--for who had not heard of the

famous border Castle of Arranstoun and envied its possessor?

They had talked a long time and settled everything.

"Tie up the whole of Miss Delburg's money entirely upon herself," Mr.

Arranstoun had said--"if it is not already done--then we need not bother

about settlements. I understand that she is well provided for."

"And how about your future children?" Mr. Parsons asked.

Michael stiffened suddenly as he looked out of the office window.

"Oh--er, they will naturally have all I possess," he returned quickly.

And now as he neared the Lodge gate, and nine o'clock struck, a

suppressed excitement was in his veins. For no matter how eventful your

life may be, or how accustomed you are to chances and vivid amusements,

to be facing a marriage ceremony with a practically unknown young woman

has aspects of originality in it calculated to set the pulses in motion.

He had almost forgotten that side of the affair which meant freedom and

safety for him from the claws of the Spider--although he had learned

upon his return home from London that she had, as Henry Fordyce had

predicted that she might, "popped in upon him," having motored over from

Ebbsworth, and had left him a letter of surprised, intense displeasure

at his unannounced absence.

When five minutes had passed, and there was as yet no sign of his

promised bride crossing the road from the Inn, Mr. Arranstoun began to

experience an unpleasant impatience. The quarter chimed--his temper

rose--had she been playing a trick upon him and never intended at any

time to come? He grew furious--and paced the fine turf behind the Lodge,

swearing hotly as was his wont when enraged.

Then he saw a little figure wrapped in a gray dust cloak much too big

for it advancing cautiously to the gate in the twilight, and he bounded

forward to meet her and to open the narrow side-entrance before the

Lodge-keeper, Old Bessie, could have time to see who was there.

"At last!" he cried, when they were safely inside and had gone a few

paces along the avenue. "I was beginning to think you did not mean to

keep your word! I am glad you have come!"

"Why, of course I meant to keep my word. I never break it," Sabine said

astonished. "I am longing to be free just like you are, but I had an

awful business to get away! I have never been so excited in my life!

Their train was late--some breakdown on the branch line--they did not

get in until half-past eight, and I dare not be all dressed, but had to

pretend to be in bed, covered up, still with the awful headache, when

Aunt Jemima bounced in." Then she laughed joyously at the recollection

of her escape. "The moment she had gone off to her supper, tucking me up

for the night, I jumped up and got on my dress and hat and her dust

cloak and then I had to watch my moment, creep down those funny little

stairs, and out of the side door--and so across here. You know it was

far harder to manage than the last feast Moravia Cloudwater and I gave

to the girls the night before she went to Paris! Isn't it fun! I do like

having these adventures, don't you?"

"Yes," said Michael, and looked down into her face.

She was extremely pretty, he thought, in the soft dusk of this Northern

evening. Her leghorn hat with its wreath of blue forget-me-nots was most

becoming and her brown hair was ruffled a little by the hat's hasty

donning.

[Illustration: "He bounded forward to meet her"]

"I needn't keep this old cloak on, need I?" she asked. "Nobody can see

us here and it is so hot."

He helped her off with it and carried it for her. She looked prettier

still now, the slender lines of her childish figure were so exquisite in

their promise of beautiful womanhood later on, and the Sunday frock of

white foulard was most sweet.

Michael was very silent; it almost made her nervous, but she prattled

on.

"This is my best frock," she laughed, "because even though it is only a

business arrangement, one couldn't get married in an old blouse, could

one?"

"Of course not!" and he strode nearer to her. "I am in evening dress,

you see--just like a French bridegroom for those wedding parties in the

Bois! so we are both festive--but here we are at the postern door!"

He opened it with his key and they stole across the short lawn and up

the balcony steps like two stealthy marauders. Then he turned and held

out his hand to her in the blaze of electric light.

"Welcome! Oh! it is good of you to have come!"

She shook hands frankly--it seemed the right thing to do, she felt,

since they were going to oblige one another and both gain their desires.

Then it struck her for the first time that he was a very handsome young

man--quite the Prince Charming of the girls' dreams. A thousand times

finer than Moravia's Italian prince with whom for her part she had been

horribly disappointed when she had seen his photograph. Only it was too

silly to consider this one in that light, since he wasn't really going

to be hers--only a means to an end. Oh! the pleasure to be free and rich

and to do exactly what she pleased! She had been planning all these days

what she would do. She would get back to the Inn not later than ten, and

creep quietly up to her room through that side door which was always

open into the yard. The weather was so beautiful it would be nothing,

even if the Inn people did see her entering--she might have been out for

a stroll in the twilight. Then at six in the morning she would creep out

again and go to the station; there was a train which left for Edinburgh

at half-past--and there she would get a fast express to London later on,

after a good breakfast; and once in London a cab would take her to Mr.

Parsons', and after that!--money and freedom!

She had planned it all. She would leave a letter for her Uncle and Aunt,

saying she was married and had gone and they need not trouble themselves

any more about her. Mr. Parsons would tell her where to stay and help

her to get a good maid like Moravia had, and then she would go to Paris

just as Moravia had done and buy all sorts of lovely clothes; it would

take her perhaps a whole month, and then when she was a very grand,

grown-up lady, she would write to her dear friend and say now she was

ready to accept her invitation to go and stay with her! And what

absolute joy to give Moravia such a surprise! to say she was married and

free! and had quite as nice things as even that Princess! It was all a

simply glorious picture--and but for this kind young man it could never

have been hers--but her fate would have been--Samuel Greenbank or Aunt

Jemima for four years! It was no wonder she felt grateful to him! and

that her handshake was full of cordiality.

Michael pulled himself together rather sharply, the blood was now

running very fast in his veins.

"Wait here," he said to her, "while I go into the chapel to see if Mr.

Fergusson and the two witnesses are ready."

They were--Johnson and Alexander Armstrong--and the old chaplain who had

been Michael's father's tutor and was now an almost doddering old

nonentity also stood waiting in his white surplice at the altar rails.

The candles were all lit and great bunches of white lilies gave forth a

heavy scent. A strange sense of intoxication rose to Michael's brain.

When he returned to his sitting-room he found his bride-to-be arranging

her hat at the old mirror which had reflected her before.

"Won't you take it off?" he suggested--"and see, I have got you some

flowers----" and he brought her a great bunch of stephanotis which lay

waiting upon a table near.

"There is no orange-blossom--because that is for real weddings--but

won't you just put this bit of stephanotis in your hair?" and he broke

off a few blooms.

She was delighted, she loved dressing up, and she fixed it most

becomingly with dexterous fingers above her left ear.

"You do look sweet," he told her. "Now we must come----" and he gave her

his arm. She took it with that grave look of a child acting in a very

serious grown-up play. She was perfectly delicious with her blooming

youth and freshness and dimples--her violet eyes shining like stars, and

her red full lips pouting like appetizing ripe cherries. Michael

trembled a little as he felt her small hand upon his arm.

They walked to the altar rails and the ceremony began.

But, with the first words of the old clergyman's voice, a new and

unknown excitement came over Sabine. The night and the gorgeous chapel

and the candles and the flowers all affected her deeply, just as the

grand feast days used to do at the convent. A sudden realization of the

mystery of things overcame her and frightened her, so that her voice was

hardly audible as she repeated the clergyman's words.

What were these vows she was making before God? She dared not

think--the whole thing was a maze, a dream. It was too late to run

away--but it was terrible--she wanted to scream.

At last she felt her bridegroom place the ring upon her finger, now ice

cold.

And then she was conscious that she was listening to these words:

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

After that she must have reeled a little, for she felt a strong arm

encircle her waist for a moment.

Then she knew she was kneeling and that words of no meaning whatever

were being buzzed over her head.

And lastly she was vividly awakened to burning consciousness by the

first man's kiss which had ever touched her innocent lips.

So she was married--and this was her husband, this splendid, beautiful

young man there beside her in his evening clothes--and it was over--and

she was going away and would never see him again--and what had she

done?--and would God be very angry?--since it was all really in a

church!

Her hand trembled as she wrote her name, Sabine Delburg, for the last

time, and she was shivering all over as she walked back with her

newly-made husband to his sitting-room through the gloomy corridor.

There it was all brilliant light again, the light of soft silk-shaded

lamps--and the center table was cleared and supper for two and opened

champagne awaited them. They were both very pale, and Sabine sat down in

a chair.

"Mr. Fergusson will bring a copy of the certificate in a minute,"

Michael said to her, "and then we can have some supper--but now, come,

we must drink each other's healths."

He poured out the wine into two glasses and handed her one. She had

never tasted champagne before--but sipped it as she was bid. It did not

seem to her a very nice drink--not to be compared to _sirop aux

fraises_--but she knew at weddings people always had champagne.

Michael gulped down a bumper, and it steadied his nerves and the fresh,

vigorously healthy color came back to his face. The whole situation had

excited his every sense.

"Let me wish you all joy--Mrs.--Arranstoun!" he said.

The little bride laughed her rippling laugh. This brought her back to

earth and the material, jolly side of things, it was so funny to hear

herself thus called.

"Oh! that does sound odd!" she cried. "I shall never call myself

that--why, people might know I must be something connected with this

castle, and they would be questioning, and I couldn't have a scrap of

fun! You have got another name--you said it just now, 'Michael Howard

Arranstoun'--that will do. I shall be Mrs. Howard! It is quite

ordinary--and shall I be a widow? I've never thought of all this yet.

Oh! it will be fun."

Every second of the time her charm was further affecting Michael--he was

not conscious of any definite intention--only to talk to her--to detain

her as long as possible. She was like a breath of exquisite spring air

after Violet Hatfield.

Mr. Fergusson here came in from the chapel with the certificate--and his

presence seemed a great bore, and after thanking him for his services,

Michael poured him out some wine to drink their healths, and then the

butler announced that the brougham was waiting at the door to take the

old gentleman home.

Sabine had stood up on his entrance and came forward to wish him

good-bye; now that the certificate was there she intended to go herself

by the balcony steps as soon as he should be safely off by the door.

"Good-bye, my dear young lady, I have known your husband since he was

born, and with all his faults he is a splendid fellow; let me wish you

every happiness and prosperity together and may you be blessed with many

children and peace."

Sabine stiffened--she felt she ought to enlighten the benevolent old

man, who evidently did not understand at all that she was going to trip

off--not as he, just to her own home, but out of Mr. Arranstoun's life

forever--but no suitable words would come, and Michael, afraid of what

she might say, hurried his chaplain off without more ado and then

returned to her and shut the door.

Now they were absolutely alone and the clock struck ten in the courtyard

with measured strokes.

"Let us begin supper," he said, with what calmness he could.

"But I ought to go back at once," his bride protested; "the Inn may be

shut and then what in the world should I do?"

"There is plenty of time, it certainly won't close its doors until

eleven--have some soup--or a cold quail and some salad--and see, I have

not forgotten the wedding-cake--you must cut that!"

Sabine was very hungry; she had had to pretend her head was aching too

much to go with her elders to the ruins of Elbank and had retired to her

room before they left, and had had no tea, and such dainties were not to

be resisted, especially the cake! After all, it could not be any harm

staying just this little while longer since no one would ever know, and

people who got married always did cut their own cakes. So she sat down

and began, he taking every care of her. They had the merriest supper,

and even the champagne, more of which he gave her, did not taste so

nasty after the first sip.

She had quail and salad and a wonderful ice--better than any, even on

the day of the holiday for Moravia's wedding far away in Rome; and

there were marrons glacs, too, and other divine bon-bons--and

strawberries and cream!

She had never enjoyed herself so much in her whole life. Her perfectly

innocent prattle enchanted Michael more and more with its touches of

shrewd common sense. He drank a good deal of champagne, too--and

finally, when it came to cutting the cake time, a wild thought began to

enter his head.

The icing was rather hard, and he had to help her--and stood beside her,

very near.

She looked up smilingly and saw something in his face. It caused her a

sudden wild emotion of she knew not what--and then she felt very nervous

and full of fear.

She moved abruptly away from him to the other side of the table, leaving

the cake--and stood looking at him with great, troubled, violet eyes.

He followed her.

"You little, sweet darling!" he whispered, his voice very deep. "Why

should you ever go away from me--I want to teach you to love me, Sabine.

You belong to me, you know--you are mine. I shall not let you leave me!

I shall keep you and hold you close!"

And he clasped her in his arms.

For he was a man, you see--and the moment had come!