The Man and the Moment

Chapter 11

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All through breakfast, Sabine devoted herself sedulously to Lord

Fordyce--and this produced two results. It sent Henry into a seventh

heaven and caused Michael to burn with jealous rage. Primitive instincts

were a good deal taking possession of him--and he found it extremely

difficult to keep up his role of disinterested friend. It must be

admitted he was in really a very difficult position for any man, and it

is not very easy to decide what he ought to have done short of telling

Henry the truth at once--but this he found grew every moment more hard

to do. It would mean that he would have to leave Hronac immediately. In

any case, he must do this directly. Sabine admitted, even to him, that

she was his wife. They could not together agree to leave Henry in

ignorance, that would be deliberately deceiving, and would make them

both feel too mean. But while nothing was even tacitly confessed, there

seemed some straw for his honor to grasp; he clutched at it knowing its

flimsy nature. He had given himself until the next day and now refused

to look beyond that. Every moment Sabine was attracting him more

deeply--and bringing certain memories more vividly before him with

maddening tantalization.

But did she love Henry? Of that he could not be sure. If she did, he

certainly must divorce her at once. If she did not--why was she wishing

to marry him? Henry was an awfully good fellow, far better than he--but

after all, she was his wife--even though he had forfeited all right to

call her so, and if she did not love Henry, no friendship toward him

ought to be allowed to stand in the way of their reunion. It is

astonishing how civilization controls nature! If we put as much force

into the controlling of our own thoughts as we put into acting up to a

standard of public behavior, what wonderful creatures we should become!

Here were these two human beings--young and strong and full of passion,

playing each a part with an art as great as any displayed at the Comdie

Franaise! And all for reasons suggested by civilization!--when nature

would have solved the difficulty in the twinkling of an eye!

Michael spent a breakfast hour in purgatory. It was plain to be seen

that Henry expected him to show some desire to go fishing, or to want

some other sport which required solitude, or only the company of Madame

Imogen--and his afternoon looked as if it were not going to be a thing

of joy. The result of civilization then made him say:

"May I take out that boat I saw in the little harbor after breakfast,

Mrs. Howard? I must have some real exercise. Two days in a motor is too

much."

And his hostess graciously accorded him a permission, while her heart

sank--at least she experienced that unpleasant physical sensation of

heaviness somewhere in the diaphragm which poets have christened

heart-sinking! She knew it was quite the right thing for him to have

done,--and yet she wished fervently that they could have spent another

hour like the one in the turret summer-house.

Henry was radiant--and as Michael went off through the postern and down

to the little harbor where the boats lay, he asked in fine language what

were his beloved's wishes for the afternoon?

Sabine felt pettish, she wanted to snap out that she did not care a

single sou what they did, but she controlled herself and answered

sweetly that she would take him all over the chteau and ask his opinion

and advice about some further improvements she meant to make.

They strolled first to the crenellated wall of the courtyard along which

there was a high walk from which you looked down upon the boat-house and

the little jetty--this wall made the fourth side of the courtyard, and

with the gate tower, and the concierge's tower across the causeway, and

part of the garden elevation, was the very oldest of the whole chteau,

and dated from early feudal times.

They leaned upon the stone and looked down at the sea.

"There are only a very few days in the year that Minne-ha-ha ever comes

out of her shed," Sabine told him, pointing to the boat-house. "You

cannot imagine what the wind is here--even now it may get up in a few

moments on this glassy sea, or thunder may come--and in the autumn the

storms are too glorious. I sit at one of the big windows in my

sitting-room and watch the waves for hours; they break on the rocks

which stretch out from the tower, which is my bedroom on the Finisterre

side, and they rise mountain-high; it is a most splendid sight. We are,

as it were, in the midst of a cauldron of boiling foam. It exalts and

vitalizes me more than I can tell you. I wish it had been the autumn

now."

"I don't," he said. "I much prefer the summer and peace. I want to take

away all that desire for fierce things, dearest--they were the echoes of

those dark thoughts and shadows which used to be in your eyes at

Carlsbad."

"Ah, if you could!" she sighed.

It was the first time he had ever seen her moved--and it distressed him.

"Do you not think that I can, then?" he asked, tenderly. "It is the only

thing I really want in life--to make you happy."

"How good you are, Henry!" she cried; "so noble and unselfish and true;

you frighten me. I am just a creature of earth--full of things you may

not like when you know me better. I am sure I think of myself more than

any one else--you make me--ashamed."

He took her hand and kissed it, while his fine gray eyes melted in

worship.

"I will not even listen when you say such things--for me you are

perfect--a pearl of great price."

"I must try to be, but I am not," and her voice trembled a little. "I

believe I am as full of faults and life as your friend there--Mr.

Arranstoun, who I am sure is just a selfish, reckless man!"

Michael at this moment reached the boat-house with old Berthe's son, who

began to help him to untie the one he wanted. He looked the most

splendid creature there in his white flannels--and he turned and waved

to them and then got in and pulled out a few yards with long, easy

strokes.

"Michael is a character," his friend said. "He has been spoilt all his

life by women--and fortune. He has a most strange story. He married a

girl about five years ago just to make himself safe from another woman

whom he had been making love to. I was awfully angry with him at the

time--I was staying in the house and I refused to wait for the wedding.

I thought it such a shame to the girl, although it was merely an empty

ceremony--but she was awfully young, I believe."

"How interesting!" and Sabine's voice was strained. "You saw the

girl--what was she like?"

"No, I never saw her--it was all settled one afternoon when I was

out--and I thought it such a thundering shame that I left that same

night."

"And if you had stayed--you would have met her--how curious fate is

sometimes--isn't it? Perhaps you could have prevented your friend being

so foolish--if you had stayed."

"No, nothing in the world would ever prevent Michael from doing what he

wanted to--it is in the blood of all those old border families--heredity

again--they flourished by imposing their wills recklessly and snatching

and fighting, and who ever survived was a strong man. It has come down

to them in force and vigor and daring unto this day."

"But what happened about the marriage?" Sabine asked. "It interests me

so much; it sounds so romantic at this matter-of-fact time."

"Nothing happened, except that they went through the ceremony and the

girl left at once that same night, I believe, and Michael has never seen

or heard of her since--he tells me the time is up now when he can

divorce her for desertion, according to Scotch law--and I fancy he will.

It is a ridiculous position for them both. He does not even know if she

has not preferred some one else by now."

"Surely she would have given some sign if she had--but perhaps he does

not care."

"Not much. I fancy he amused himself a good deal at Ostende--" and

Henry smiled. "He has been away in the wilds for five years and

naturally has come back full of zest for civilization."

Sabine's full lips curled, and she looked at the sea again, and the

figure in the boat rapidly pulling away from the shore.

"If he chose to leave her alone all these years, he could not expect

anything else, could he, than that she would have grown to care for

another man."

"No, that is what I told him--and he said he was a dog in the manger."

"He did not want her himself, and yet did not wish to give her to any

one else--how disgustingly selfish!"

"Men are proverbially selfish," and Henry smiled again; "it is the

nature of the creatures."

The violet eyes were glowing as stars might glow could they be

angry--and their owner turned away from the sea with a fine shrug of her

shoulders--her thoughts were raging. So that is how Michael looked upon

the _affaire_! He was just the dog in the manger, and she was the hay!

But never, never would she submit to that! She would speak to him when

he came in and ask him to divorce her at once. Why should Henry ever

know?--even if Scotch divorces were reported she would appear, not as

Mrs. Howard, but as Mrs. Arranstoun,--then a discouraging thought

came--only Sabine was such an uncommon name--if it were not for that he

might never guess. But whether Henry ever knew or did not know, the

sooner she were free the better, and then she would marry him and adorn

his great position in the world--and Michael would see her there, and

how well she fulfilled her duties--so even yet she would be able to

punish him as he deserved! Hay! Indeed! Never, never, never!

Then she knew she must have been answering at random some of Lord

Fordyce's remarks, for a rather puzzled look was on his face.

A strong revulsion of feeling came to her. Henry suddenly appeared in

his best guise--and a wave of tenderness for him swept over her. How

kind and courteous and devoted he was--treating her always as his queen.

She could be sure of homage here--and that far from being hay; she would

be the most valued jewel in his crown of success. She would rise into

spheres where she would be above the paltry emotions caused by a hateful

man just because he had "it"!

So she gave her hand to Henry in a burst of exuberance and let him place

it in his arm, and then lead her back into the chteau and through all

the rooms, where they discussed blues and greens and stuffs and

furniture and the lowering of this doorway and the heightening of that,

and at last they drifted to the garden and to the lavender hedge--but

she would not take him into the summer-house or again look out on the

sea.

All through her sweetness there was a note of unrest--and Henry's fine

senses told him so--and this left the one drop of bitterness in his

otherwise blissful cup.

Michael meanwhile was expending his energy and his passion in swift

movement in the boat--but after a while he rested on his oars and then

he began to think.

There was no use in going on with the game after all--he ought to go

away at once. If he stayed and saw her any more he would not be able to

leave her at all. He knew he would only break his promise to Henry--tell

Sabine that he had fallen madly in love with her--implore her again to

forgive him for everything in the past and let them begin afresh. But he

was faced with the horrible thought of the anguish to Henry--Henry, his

old friend, who trusted him and who was ten times more worthy of this

dear woman than he was himself.

He had never been so full of impotency and misery in his life--not even

on that morning in June when he woke and found Sabine had left

him--defied him and gone--after everything. Pure rage had come to his

aid then--but now he had only remorse and longing--and anger with fate.

"It must all depend upon whether or no she loves Henry," he said to

himself at last--"and this I will make her tell me this very afternoon."

But when he got back and went into the garden he happened to witness a

scene.

Sabine--overcome by Lord Fordyce's goodness, had let him hold her arm

while her head was perilously near to his shoulder. It all looked very

intimate and lover-like when seen from afar. The greatest pain Michael

Arranstoun had ever experienced came into his heart, and without waiting

a second he turned on his heel and went back to the house. Here he had a

bath and changed his clothes, while his servant packed, and then, with

the help of Madame Imogen, he looked up a train. Yes, there was a fast

one which went to Paris from their nearest little town--he could just

catch it by ordering Henry's motor--this he promptly did--and leaving

the best excuses he could invent with Madame Imogen, he got in and

departed a few minutes before his hostess and Lord Fordyce came back to

tea at five.

He had written a short note to Sabine--which Nicholas handed to her.

She opened it with trembling fingers; this was all it was:

I understand--and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will

allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I

would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more--perhaps I

can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn.

Michael Arranstoun.

It was as well that Lord Fordyce had gone up to his room--for the lady

of Heronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the note

in her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her great

sitting-room.

So he had gone then--and they could have no explanation. But he had

come out of the manger--and was going to let the other animal eat the

hay.

This, however, was very poor comfort and brought no consolation on its

wings. Civilization again won the game.

For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's voluble

description of Michael's leaving--pressing business which he had

mistaken the date about--finally she had to pour out tea and smile

happily at Henry and Pere Anselme.

But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the window

seat and shook all over with sobs.

Michael's note to Henry was characteristic:

I'm bored, my dear Henry--the picture of your bliss is not

inspiriting--so I am off to Paris and thence home. I hope you'll

think I behaved all right and played the game.

Took your motor to catch train.

Yrs.,

M.A.

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