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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man and the Moment, by Elinor Glyn
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Man and the Moment
Author: Elinor Glyn
Release Date: November 11, 2005 [EBook #17048]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN AND THE MOMENT ***
Produced by Stacy Brown Thellend, Suzanne Shell and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "It all looked very intimate and lover-like"
[Page 149]]
THE MAN AND THE MOMENT
BY
ELINOR GLYN
1914
AUTHOR OF "GUINEVERE'S LOVER," "HALCYONE,"
"THE REASON WHY," ETC.
[Illustration]
Illustrated by
R.F. James
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
* * * * *
Copyright, 1914, by The Red Book Corporation
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
"It all looked very intimate and lover-like"
_Frontispiece_
"He bounded forward to meet her" 48
"His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant" 64
"'He is often in some scrape--something must have
culminated to-night'" 224
THE MAN AND THE MOMENT
CHAPTER I
Michael Arranstoun folded a letter which he had been reading for the
seventh time, with a vicious intentness, and then jumping up from the
big leather chair in which he had been buried, he said aloud, "Damn!"
When a young, rich and good-looking man says that particular word aloud
with a fearful grind of the teeth, one may know that he is in the very
devil of a temper!
Michael Arranstoun was!
And, to be sure, he had ample reason, as you, my friend, who may happen
to have begun this tale, will presently see.
It is really most irritating to be suddenly confronted with the
consequences of one's follies at any age, but at twenty-four, when
otherwise the whole life is smiling for one, it seems quite too hard.
The frightful language this well-endowed young gentleman now indulged
in, half aloud and half in thought, would be quite impossible to put on
paper! It contained what almost amounted to curses for a certain lady
whose appearance, could she have been seen at this moment, suggested
that of a pious little saint.
"How the h---- can I keep from marrying her!" Mr. Arranstoun said more
than aloud this time, and then kicking an innocent footstool across the
room, he called his bulldog, put on his cap and stamped out on to the
old stone balcony which opened from this apartment, and was soon
stalking down the staircase and across the lawn to a little door in the
great fortified wall, which led into the park.
He had hardly left the room when, from the wide arched doorway of his
bed-chamber beyond, there entered Mr. Johnson, his superior valet,
carrying some riding-boots and a silk shirt over his arm. You could see
through the open door that it was a very big and comfortable bedroom,
which had evidently been adapted to its present use from some much more
stately beginning. A large, vaulted chamber it was, with three narrow
windows looking on to the grim courtyard beneath.
Michael Arranstoun had selected this particular suite for himself when
his father died ten years before, and his mother was left to spoil him,
until she, too, departed from this world when he was sixteen.
What a splendid inheritance he had come into! This old border castle up
in the north--and not a mortgage on the entire property! While, from his
mother, a number of solid golden sovereigns flowed into his coffers
every year--obtained by trade! That was a little disgusting for the
Arranstouns--but extremely useful.
It might have been from this same strain that the fortunate young man
had also inherited that common sense which made him fairly level-headed,
and not given as a rule to any over-mad taste.
The Arranstouns had been at Arranstoun since the time of those tiresome
Picts and Scots--and for generations they had raided their neighbors'
castles and lands, and carried off their cattle and wives and daughters
and what not! They had seized anything they fancied, and were a strong,
ruthless, brutal race, not much vitiated by civilization. These
instincts of seizing what they wanted had gone on in them throughout
eleven hundred years and more, and were there until this day, when
Michael, the sole representative of this branch of the family, said
"Damn!" and kicked a footstool across the room into the grate.
Mr. Johnson was quite aware of the peculiarity of the family. Indeed, he
was not surprised when Alexander Armstrong remarked upon it presently.
Alexander Armstrong was the old retainer, who now enjoyed the position
of guide to the Castle upon the two days a week when tourists were
allowed to walk through the state rooms, and look at the splendid
carvings and armor and pictures, and the collection of plate.
Johnson had had time to glance over his master's correspondence that
morning, which, with characteristic recklessness, that gentleman had
left upon his bed while he went to his bath, so his servant knew the
cause of his bad temper, and had been prudent and kept a good deal out
of the way. But the news was so interesting, he felt Alexander Armstrong
really ought to share the thrill.
"Mrs. Hatfield's husband is dying," he announced, as Armstrong, very
diffidently, peeped through the window from the balcony, and then,
seeing no one but his friend the valet, entered the room.
Alexander Armstrong spoke in broad Scotch, but I shall not attempt to
transcribe this barbaric language; sufficient to tell you that he made
the excuse for his intrusion by saying that he had wanted to get some
order from the master about the tourists.
"We shan't have any tourists when she's installed here as mistress!" Mr.
Johnson remarked sepulchrally.
Armstrong was heard to murmur that he did not know what Mr. Johnson
meant! This was too stupid!
"Why, I told you straight off Mrs. Hatfield's husband is dying," Johnson
exclaimed, contemptuously. "She wrote one of her mauve billy doos this
morning, telling the master so, and suggesting they'd soon be able to be
married and happy--pretty cold-blooded, I call it, considering the poor
man is not yet in his grave!"
Armstrong was almost knocked over by this statement; then he
laughed--and what he said meant in plain English that Mr. Johnson need
not worry himself, for no Arranstoun had ever been known to be coerced
into any course of conduct which he did not desire himself--not being
hampered by consideration for women, or by any consideration but his own
will. For the matter of that, a headstrong, ruthless race all of them
and, as Mr. Johnson must be very well aware, their own particular master
was a true chip of the old block.
"See his bonny blue eye--" (I think he pronounced it "ee"), "see his
mouth shut like a game spring. See his strong arms and his height! See
him smash the boughs off trees when they get in his way! and then tell
me a woman's going to get dominion over him. Go along, Mr. Johnson!"
But Johnson remained unconvinced and troubled; he had had several
unpleasant proofs of woman's infernal cunning in his own sphere of life,
and Mrs. Hatfield, he knew, was as well endowed with Eve's wit as any
French maid.
"We'll ha' a bet about it if you like," Armstrong remarked, as he got up
to go, the clock striking three. He knew the first batch of afternoon
tourists would be clamoring at the gate.
Mr. Johnson looked at the riding-boots in his hand.
"He went straight off for his ride without tasting a bite of breakfast
or seeing Mr. Fordyce, and he didn't return to lunch, and just now I
find every article of clothing strewn upon the floor--when he came in
and took another bath--he did not even ring for me--he must have
galloped all the time; his temper would frighten a fighting cock."
Meanwhile, Michael Arranstoun was tramping his park with giant strides,
and suddenly came upon his friend and guest, Henry Fordyce, whose very
presence in his house he had forgotten, so turbulent had his thoughts
been ever since the early post came in. Henry Fordyce was a leisurely
creature, and had come out for a stroll on the exquisite June day upon
his own account.
They exchanged a few remarks, and gradually got back to Michael's
sitting-room again, and rang for drinks.
Mr. Fordyce had, by this time, become quite aware that an active volcano
was going on in his friend, but had waited for the first indication of
the cause. It came in the course of a conversation, after the footman
had left the room and both men were reclining in big chairs with their
iced whiskey and soda.
"It is a shame to stay indoors on such a day," Henry said lazily,
looking out upon the balcony and the glittering sunshine.
"I never saw anyone enjoy a holiday like you do, Henry," Michael
retorted, petulantly. "I can't enjoy anything lately. 'Pon my soul, it
is worth going into Parliament to get such an amount of pleasure out of
a week's freedom."
But Henry did not agree that it was freedom, when even here at
Arranstoun he had been pestered to patronize the local bazaar.
"The penalty of greatness! I wonder when you will be prime minister.
Lord, what a grind!"
Mr. Fordyce stretched himself in his chair and lit a cigar.
"It may be a grind," he said, meditatively, "but it is for some definite
idea of good--even if I am a slave; whereas you!--you are tied and bound
to a woman--and such a woman! You have not been able to call your soul
your own since last October as it is--and before you know where you are,
you will be attending the husband's funeral and your own wedding in the
same week!"
Michael bounded from his chair with an oath. "I'll be shot if I do!" he
said, and sat down again. Then his voice grew a little uncertain, and he
went on:
"It is worrying me awfully, though, Henry. If poor old Maurice does puff
out--I suppose I ought to marry her--I----"
Mr. Fordyce stiffened, and the sleepy look in his gray eyes altered to a
flash of steel.
"Let us have a little plain speaking, Michael, old boy. It is not as
though I do not know the whole circumstance of your affair with Violet
Hatfield. I warned you about her in the beginning, when you met her at
my sister Rose's, but, as usual, you would take your own course----"
Michael began to speak, but checked himself--and Henry Fordyce went on.
"I have had a letter from Rose this morning--as you of course know,
Violet is staying for this Whitsuntide with them, having dragged her
wretched husband, dying of consumption as he is, to this merry party.
Well--Rose says poor Maurice is in a terrible state, caught a fresh cold
on Saturday--and she adds, 'So I suppose we shall soon see Violet
installed at Arranstoun as mistress.'"
"I know--I heard from Violet herself this morning," and Michael put his
head down dejectedly.
"Ebbsworth is only thirty-five miles from here," Mr. Fordyce announced
with meaning. "Violet can pop in on you at any moment, and she'll clinch
the matter and bind you with her cobwebs before you can escape."
"Oh, Lord!"
"You know you are dead sick of her, Michael--and you know that I am not
the sort of man who would ever speak of a woman thus without grave
reason; but she does not care for you any more than the half a dozen
others who occupied your proud position before your day--it is only for
money and the glory of having you tied to her apron strings. It was not
any good hammering on while the passion was upon you; but I have
watched you, and have seen that it is waning, so now's my time. With
this danger in front of you, you have got to pull yourself together, old
boy, and cut and run."
"That would be no use--" Then Michael stammered a little. "I say, Henry,
I won't hear a word against her. You can thunder at me--but leave her
out."
Mr. Fordyce smiled.
"Did she express deep grief at poor Maurice's condition in her letter?"
he asked.
"Er--no--not exactly----"
"I thought not--she probably suggested all sorts of joys with you when
she is free!"
There was an ominous silence.
Mr. Fordyce's voice now took on that crisp tone which his adversaries in
the House of Commons so well knew meant that they must look to their
guns.
"Delightful woman! A spider, I tell you, a roaring hypocrite, too,
bamboozling poor Rose into thinking her a virtuous, persecuted little
darling, with a noble passion for you, and my sister is a downright
person not easily fooled. At this moment, Violet is probably shedding
tears on her shoulder over poor Maurice, while she is plotting how soon
she can become mistress of Arranstoun. Good God! when I think of it--I
would rather get in a girl from the village and go through the ceremony
with her, and make myself safe, than have the prospect of Violet
Hatfield as a wife. Michael, I tell you seriously, dear boy--you won't
have the ghost of a chance if you are still unmarried when poor Maurice
dies!"
Michael bounded from his chair once more. He was perfectly
furious--furious with the situation--furious with the woman--furious
with himself.
"Confound it, Henry, I--know it--but it does not mend matters your
ranting there--and I am so sorry for the poor chap--Maurice, I mean--a
very decent fellow, poor Maurice! Can't you suggest any way out?"
Mr. Fordyce mused a moment, while he deliberately puffed smoke,
Michael's impatience increasing so that he ran his hands through his
dark, smooth hair, whose shiny, immaculate brushing was usually his
pride!
"Can't you suggest a way out?" he reiterated.
Mr. Fordyce did not reply--then after a moment: "You were always too
much occupied with women, Michael--from your first scrape when you left
Eton; and over this affair you have been a complete fool."
Michael was heard to swear again.
"You have been inconsistent, too, because you did not even employ your
usual ruthless methods of doing what you pleased with them. You have
simply drifted into allowing this vile creature's cobwebs to cling on to
your whole existence until you are almost paralyzed, and it seems to me
that an immediate marriage with someone else is your only way of escape.
Such a waste of your life! Just analyze the position. You have
everything in the world, this glorious place--an old
name--money--prestige--and if your inclinations do run to the material
side of things instead of the intellectual, they are still successful in
their demonstration. No one has a better eye for a horse, or is a finer
shot. The best at driven grouse for your age, my boy, I have ever seen.
You are full of force, Michael, and ought to do some decent
thing--instead of which you spoil the whole outlook by fooling after
this infernal woman--and you have not now the pluck to cut the Gordian
knot. She will drag you to the lowest depths----"
Then he laughed. "And only think of that voice in one's ears all day
long! I would rather marry old Bessie at the South Lodge. She is
eighty-four, she tells me, and would soon leave you a widower."
The first ray of hope shot into Michael's bright blue eyes--and he
exclaimed with a kind of joy, as he seized Binko, his bulldog, by his
fat, engaging throat:
"Bessie! Old Bessie--By Jove, what an idea!--the very thing. She'd do it
for me like a shot, dear old body!"
Binko gurgled and slobbered in sympathy.
"She would be kind to you, too, Binko. She would not say she found your
hairs on every chair, and that you dribbled on her dress! She would not
tell your master that he left his cigarette-ash about, and she hated the
smell of smoke! She would not want this room for her boudoir, she----"
Then he stopped his flow of words, suddenly catching sight of the
whimsical, sardonic smile upon his friend's face.
"Oh, Lord!" he mumbled, contritely. "I had forgotten you were here,
Henry. I am so jolly upset."
"This heartlessness about poor Maurice has finished you, eh?" Mr.
Fordyce suggested. He felt he might be gaining his end.
Michael covered his face with his hands.
"It seems so ghastly to think of marriage with the poor chap not yet
dead--I am fairly knocked over--it really is the last straw--but she
will cry and make a scene--and she has certainly arguments--and it will
make one feel such a cad to leave her."
"She wrote that--did she?--wrote of marriage and her husband's last
attack of hemorrhage in the same paragraph, I suppose. Michael, it is
revolting! My dear boy, you must break away from her--and then do try to
occupy yourself with more important things than women. Believe me, they
are all very well in their way and in their proper place--to be treated
with the greatest courtesy and respect as wives and mothers--even loved,
if you will, for a recreation--but as vital factors in a man's real
life! My dear fellow, the idea is ridiculous--that life should be for
his country and the development of his own soul----"
Michael Arranstoun laughed.
"Jolly old Mohammedan! You think women have none, I suppose!"
Henry Fordyce frowned, because it was rather true--but he denied the
charge.
"Nothing of the sort. Merely, I see things at their proper balance and
you cannot."
Michael leaned back in his chair; he was quieter for a moment.
"I only see what I want to see, Henry--and I am a savage--I cannot help
it--we have always been so. When I fancy a woman, I must obtain
her--when I want a horse, I must have it. It is always _must_--and we
have not done so badly. We still possess our shoulders and chins and
strength after eleven hundred years of it!" and he stretched out a
splendid arm, with a force which could have felled an ox.
An undoubtedly fine specimen of British manhood he looked, sitting there
in the June sunlight, which came in a shaft from the south mullioned
window in the corner beyond the great fireplace, the space between
occupied by a large picture of uncertain date, depicting the landing of
Mary, Queen of Scots, in her northern kingdom.
His eyes roamed to this.
"One of my ancestors was among that party," he said, pointing to a
figure. "He had just killed a Moreton and stolen his wife, that is why
he looks so perky--the fellow in the blue doublet."
Mr. Fordyce rose from his chair and fired his last shot.
"And now a female spider is going to paralyze the last Arranstoun, and
rule him for the rest of his days, sapping his vitality."
But Michael protested.
"By heaven, no!"
"Well, I'll leave you to think about it. I am going for another stroll
on this lovely day." He had got to the window by this time, which looked
into the courtyard on the opposite side to the balcony. "Goodness! what
a party of tourists! It is a bore for you to have them all over the
place like this! To own a castle with state rooms to be shown to the
public has its disadvantages."
Michael looked at them, too, a large party of Americans, mostly of that
class which compose the tourists of all countries, and which no nation
feels proud to own. He had seen hundreds of such, and turned away
indifferently.
"They only come here twice a week, and it has been allowed for such
ages--they are generally quiet, and fortunately their perambulations
close at the end of the gallery. They don't intrude upon my own suite.
They get to the chapel by the outside door."
Henry crossed the room and went on to the balcony.
"Mrs. Hatfield will alter all that," he laughed, as he disappeared from
view.
Michael flashed a rageful glance at his back, and then flung himself
into his great armchair again, and pulled the wrinkled mass, which
called itself a prize bulldog, on to his lap.
"I believe he's right and we are caught, Binko. If we fled to the Rocky
Mountains, she would track us. If we stay and face it, she'll make an
almighty scandal and force us to marry her. What in the devil's name are
we to do----!"
Binko licked his master's hands, and made noises, so full of gurgling,
slobbering sympathy, no heart could have remained uncomforted. Who
knows! His canine common sense may have telepathically transmitted a
thought, for Michael suddenly plopped him on the floor, and stalked
toward the fireplace to ring the bell, while he exclaimed, as though
answering a suggestion. "Yes, we'll send for old Bessie--that's the only
way."
But before he could reach his goal, the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots,
landing fell forward with a crash, and through the aperture of a secret
door which it concealed, there tumbled a very young and pretty girl
right into the room.
CHAPTER II
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 _gene_ 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--_fiancee_ 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.