FOR a day or two, Michael Arranstoun could not make up his mind, when he heard of the Ebbsworth ball, as to whether or no he ought to go to it. He had several conversations with Binko upon the subject, and finally came to the conclusion that he would go. He had grown so desperately unhappy by this time, that he cared no more whether it were right or wrong—he must see Sabine. He had not believed that it could be possible for him to suffer to such a degree about a woman. He must satisfy himself absolutely as to the fact of her loving Henry.
Rose Forster had written, of course, to ask him to stay in the house for it—holding out the bait that she had two absolutely charming Americans coming. So Michael fell—and accepted, not without excusing himself to Binko as he finished writing out his wire:
Thousand thanks. I will come.
"I am a coward, Binko—I ought to have the pluck to go off to Timbuctoo and let Henry have a fair field—but I haven't and must be certain first."
They were all at tea in the library at Ebbsworth when he arrived, having motored over from Arranstoun after lunch.
Everyone was enchanted to see him, and greeted him with delight. He knew almost the whole twenty of them, most of whom were old friends.
The hostess took him over to the tea table, and sitting near it in a ravishing tea-gown was Moravia. Rose Forster introduced him casually, while she poured him out some tea.
The library was a big room with one or two tall screens, and from behind the furthest one there came a low, rippling laugh. The sound of it maddened Michael, and his bold blue eyes blazed as he began to talk to the Princess. His naturally easy manners made him able to carry on some kind of a conversation, but his whole attention was fixed upon the whereabouts of Sabine. She was with Henry, of course, behind that Spanish leather screen. He hardly even noticed that Moravia was a very pretty woman, most wonderfully dressed; but he felt she was a powerful unit in his game of getting Sabine to Arranstoun, and so he endeavored to make himself agreeable to her.
Presently, in the general move, Lord Fordyce and his lady love emerged with two other people they had been talking to, and Henry came up to Michael with outstretched hand. He was awfully glad to see him, he said. Then this estranged husband and wife were face to face.
It was a wonderful moment for both of them, and with all the schooling that each one had been through, it was extremely difficult to behave naturally. Michael did not fight with himself, except to keep from all outward expression; he knew he was simply overcome with emotion; but Sabine continued to throw dust in her own eyes. The sudden wild beating of her heart she put down to every other reason but the true one. It was most wrong of Michael to have come to this party; but it was, of course, done out of bravado to show her that she did not matter to him at all—so with supreme sangfroid she greeted him casually, and then turned eyes of tenderness to Henry.
"You were going to show me the miniatures in the next room, Lord Fordyce—were you not?" she said, sweetly, and took a step on toward the door, leaving Michael with pain and rage for company.
She had never allowed Henry to kiss her since that one occasion at Héronac. It was not as it should be, she affirmed—until she were free and really engaged to him, she prayed him to behave always only as a friend. Lord Fordyce acquiesced, as he would have done to any penance she chose to impose upon him, and in his secret thoughts rather respected her for her decision; he was then more than delighted when she put her slender hand upon his arm with possessive familiarity as soon as they had reached the anteroom where the collection of miniatures were kept; but he did not know that she was aware that Michael stood where he could see them through the archway.
"My darling!" and he lifted the white fingers to his lips. Sabine had particularly beautiful hands, and they were his delight. She never wore any rings—only her wedding-ring and the one great pearl Henry had persuaded her to let him give her, but this was on her right hand.
"It would mean nothing for me to have it on the left one—while that bar of gold is there," she had told him. "I will only take it if you let me have it as a gage of friendship," and as ever he agreed. He was so passionately in love with her, there was nothing in the world he would not have done or left undone to please her. His eye followed her always with rapture, and her slightest wish was instantly obeyed. Sabine was naturally an autocrat, and, but for the great generosity of her spirit, might have made him suffer considerably, but she did not, being consistently gentle and sweet.
"My darling!" Henry repeated, in the little anteroom, while his fond eyes devoured her face. "Sometimes I love you so it frightens me—My God, if anything were to take you from me now, I do not think I could bear it."
Sabine shivered as she bent down to look at a case of Cosways in a show table.
"Nothing can take you from me, Henry—unless something goes wrong about the divorce.
My lawyer arrives in England to-day from America on purpose to consult me and see what can be done to hasten matters. My—husband—has not as yet started the proceedings it seems."
Lord Fordyce's face paled.
"Does that mean anything sinister, dearest?" he demanded, with a quiver in his cultivated voice. "Sabine, you would tell me, would you not, if there were anything to fear?"
"I do not myself know what it means—I may have some news to-morrow—let us forget about it to-night. Oh! I want to be happy just for to-night, Henry!" and she held out her hand again pleadingly.
"Indeed, you shall be, darling," and splendid and unselfish gentleman that he was, he crushed down his anguish, and used all his clever brain to divert and entertain her, and presently all the women went up to dress for dinner and the ball, and Lord Fordyce found Michael in the smoking-room. He had really a deep affection for him; he had known him ever since he was an absolutely fearless, dare-devil little boy, the joy and pride of his father, Henry's old friend, and in spite of the full ten years' difference in their ages, they had ever been closest allies until their break at Arranstoun, and then Michael's five years abroad had made a gap, bridged over now since his return. Lord Fordyce felt that Michael's intense vitality and radiating magnetism would be refreshing in the depressed state into which his lady love's words had thrown him, and he drew him over with him, and they sat down in two big chairs apart from the rest of the festive groups—some playing bridge or billiards. Michael was in no gentle temper, and Henry was the last person he wished to talk to. He knew he ought not to have come, he knew that he ought to tell Henry straight out and then go off before the ball. He felt he was behaving like the most despicable coward; and yet, if it were possible for Henry never to know that he, Michael, was Sabine's husband, it would save his friend much pain. He was smarting under Sabine's insolent dismissal of him, and burning with jealousy over that witnessed caress, the violent passions of his race were surging up and causing a devil of recklessness to show in his very handsome face. Lord Fordyce saw that something had disturbed him.
"What's up, Michael, old boy?" he asked. "I haven't seen you look so like Black James since you got Violet Hatfield's letter and did not see how you could get out of marrying her."
Black James was a famous Arranstoun of the Court of James IV of Scotland, whose exploits had been the terror and admiration of the whole country, and who was even yet a byword for recklessness and savagery.
Michael laughed.
"Poor old Violet!" he said. "She will soon be bringing out her daughter. I saw her the other day in London; she cut me dead!"
"That was an escape!" and Henry lit a cigar. "However, as you know, a year after weeping crocodile tears for poor Maurice, she married young Layard of Balmayn. So all's well that ends well. She and Rose have never spoken since the scene when Violet read in the Scotsman that you had got married!"
"Don't let's talk of it!" returned Mr. Arranstoun. "The whole thought of marriage and matrimony makes me sick!"
"Are you in some fresh scrape?" Henry exclaimed.
Michael put his head down doggedly, while his eyes flashed and he bit off the end of his cigar.
"Yes, the very devil of a hole—but this time no one can help me with advice or even sympathy; I must get out of the tangle myself."
"I am awfully sorry, old man."
"It is my own fault, that is what hurts the most."
"I do not feel particularly brilliant to-night either," Henry announced. "The divorce proceedings have not apparently been commenced in America—and nothing definite can be settled. I do not understand it quite. I always thought that out there the woman could always get matters manipulated for her, and get rid of the man when she wanted. They are so very chivalrous to women, American men, whatever may be their other sins. This one must be an absolute swine."
"Yes—does Mrs. Howard feel it very much?" and Michael's deep voice vibrated strangely.
"She spoke of it just now. Her lawyer arrives from New York to-day to consult with her what is best next to be done."
"And she never told you a thing about the fellow, Henry? How very strange of her, isn't it?"
Lord Fordyce's fine, gray eyes gleamed.
"Ah—Michael, if you had ever loved a woman, you would know that when you really do, you desire to trust her to the uttermost. Sabine would tell me and offered to at once if I wished, but—it all upsets her so—I agree with her—it is much happier for both of us not to talk about it. Only if there seems to be some hitch I will get her to tell me, so that I may be able to help her. I have a fairly clear judgment generally—and may see some points she and Mr. Parsons have neglected."
Michael gazed into the fire—at this moment his worst enemy might have pitied him.
"Supposing anything were to go really wrong, Henry, it would cut you up awfully, eh?"
And if Lord Fordyce had not been so preoccupied with his own emotions, he would have seen an over-anxiety on the face of his friend.
"I believe it would just end my life, Michael," he answered, very low. "I am not a boy, you know, to get over it and begin again."
Mr. Arranstoun bounded from his chair.
"Nothing must be allowed to go wrong, then, old man," he exclaimed almost fiercely. "Don't you fret. But, by Jove, we will be late for dinner!" and afraid to trust himself to say another word, he turned to one of the groups near and at last got from the room. He did not go up to his own, but on into the front hall, and so out into the night. A brisk wind was blowing, and the moon, a young, frosty moon was bright. He knew the place well, and paced a stone terrace undisturbed. It was on the other side all was noise and bustle, where the large, built out ball-room stood.
An absolute decision must be come to. No more shilly-shallying—he had thrown the dice and lost and must pay the stakes. He would ask her to dance this night and then get speech with her alone—discuss what would be best to do to save Henry, and then on the morrow go and begin proceedings immediately.
Meanwhile, up in Moravia's room, Sabine was seated upon the white sheep's-skin rug before the fire; she was wildly excited and extremely unhappy.
The sight of Michael again had upset all her fancied indifference, and shaken her poise; and apart from this, the situation was grotesque and unseemly. She could no longer suffer it: she would tell Henry the whole truth to-morrow and ask him what she must do. His love almost terrified her. What awful responsibility lay in her hand? But civilization commanded her to dress in her best, and go down and dance gaily and play her part in the world.
"Oh! what slaves we are, Morri!" she exclaimed, as though speaking her thoughts aloud, for the remark had nothing to do with what the Princess had said.
Moravia, who was lying on the sofa not in the best of moods either, answered gloomily:
"Yes, slaves—or savages. The truth is, we are nearly all animals more or less. Some are caught by wiles, and some are trapped, and some revel in being captured—and a few—a few are like me—they get away as a bird with a shot in its wing."
Sabine was startled—what was agitating her friend?
"But your troubles are over, Morri, darling—your wings are strong and free!"
"I said there was a shot in one of them."
Sabine came and sat upon a stool beside her, and took and caressed her hand.
"Something has hurt you, dearest," she cooed, rubbing Moravia's arm with her velvet cheek. "What is it?"
"No, I am not hurt—I am only cynical. I despise our sex—most of us are just primitive savages underneath at one time of our lives or another—we adore the strong man who captures us in spite of all our struggles!"
"Morri!"
"It is perfectly true! we all pass through it. In the beginning, when Girolamo devoured me with kisses and raged with jealousy, and one day almost beat me, I absolutely worshipped him; it was when he became polite—and then yawned that my misery began. You will go through it, Sabine, if you have not already done so. It seems we suffer all the time, because when that is over then we learn to appreciate gentleness and chivalry—and probably by then it is out of our reach."
"I don't believe anything is out of our reach if we want it enough," and Sabine closed her firm mouth.
"Then I wonder what you want, Sabine—because I know you do not really want Lord Fordyce—he represents chivalry—and I don't believe you are at that stage yet, dearest."
"What stage am I at, then, Morri?"
"The one when you want a master—you have mastered everything yourself up to now— but the moment will come to you—and then you will be fortunate, perhaps, if fate keeps the man away!"
Sabine's violet eyes grew black as night—and her little nostrils quivered.
"I know nothing of passions, Moravia," she cried, and threw out her arms. "I have only dreamed of them—imagined them. I am afraid of them—afraid to feel too much. Henry will be a haven of rest—the moment—can never come to me."
The Princess laughed a little bitterly.
"Then let us dress, darling, and go down and outshine all these dear, dowdy
Englishwomen; and while you are sipping courtesy and gentleness with Lord Fordyce, I shall try to quaff gloriously attractive, aboriginal force with Mr. Arranstoun—but it would have been more suitable to our characters could we have changed partners. Now, run along!"