The Man and the Moment by Elinor Glyn - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIV

WHEN the first moment of ecstasy in the knowledge that they were indeed given back to each other was over, Michael drew Sabine to the window seat where she had been crouching only that short while before in silent misery.

"Sweetheart," he entreated, "now you have got to tell me everything—do you understand, Sabine—every single thing from the first moment in the chapel when we made those vows until now when we are going to keep them. I want to know everything, darling child—all your thoughts and what you did with your life—and when you hated me and when you loved me——"

 They sat down on the velvet cushions and Sabine nestled into his arms.

"It is so difficult, Michael," she cooed, "how can I begin? I was sillier and more ignorant than any other girl of seventeen could possibly be, I think—don't you? Oh! don't let us speak of that part—I only remember that when you kissed me first in the chapel some kind of strange emotion came to me—then I was frightened——"

"But not after a while," he interpolated, something of rapturous triumph in his fond glance, while he caressed and smoothed her hair, as her little head lay against his shoulder, "I thought you had forgiven me before I went to sleep."

"Perhaps I had—I did not know myself—only that there in the gray dawn everything seemed perfectly awful and horror and terror came upon me again, and I had only one wild impulse to rush away—surely you can understand—" she paused.

"Go on, sweetheart," he commanded, "I shall not let you off one detail. I love to make you tell me every single thing"—and he took her hand and played with her wedding ring, but not taking it off, while Sabine thrilled with happiness.

"Well—you did not wake—and so presently I got into the sitting-room, and at last found the certificate—and just as I was going out of the door on to the balcony I heard you call my name sleepily—and for one second I nearly went back—but I did not, and got safely away and to the hotel!"

"Think of my not waking!" Michael exclaimed. "If only I had—you would never have been allowed to go—it is maddening to remember what that sleep cost—but how did you manage at the hotel?"

"It was after five o'clock and the side door was open into the yard. Not a soul saw me, and I carried out my original plan. I think when I was in the train I had already begun to regret bitterly, but it was too late to go back—and then next day your letter came to me at Mr. Parsons' and all my pride was up in arms!"

 Here Michael held her very tight.

 "Oh, what a brute I was to write that letter," he cried.

"All I wanted then was to go away and forget all about you and everything and have lots of nice clothes and join my friend Moravia in Paris. You see, I was still just a silly ignorant child. Mr. Parsons got me a good maid who is with me still, and he agreed at last to my taking the name of Howard—I thought if I kept the Arranstoun everyone would know."

 "But what did you intend to do, darling, with your life. We were both crazy, of course, you to go—and I to let you."

"I had no concrete idea. Just to see the world and buy what I wanted, and sit up late—and not have to obey any rules, I think—and underneath there was a great excitement all the time in the thought of looking perfectly splendid in being a grand grown-up lady when you came back—for of course I believed then that we must meet again."

"Well, what changed all that and made you become engaged to Henry, you wicked little thing!" and Michael kissed her fondly—"Was it because I did not come back?—but you could have cabled to me at any time."

 An enchanting confusion crept over Sabine—she hesitated—she began to speak, then stopped and finally buried her face in his coat.

"What is it, darling?" he asked with almost a tone of anxiety in his voice. "Did you have some violent flirtation with someone at this stage? and you think I shall be annoyed—but indeed I shall not, because I do fully realize that whatever you did was my fault for leaving you alone—Tell me, Sabine, you sweet child."

 "No—it wasn't that——"

 "Well—then?"

 "Well—then I was—terrified—it was my old maid, Simone, who told me what had happened—I was still too ignorant to understand things."

 "Told you what? What wretched story did the old woman invent about me?" Michael's eyes were haughty—that she could listen to stories from a maid!

 Sabine clasped her hands together—she was deeply moved.

"Oh, Michael—you are stupid! How can I possibly tell you—if you won't understand." Then she jumped up suddenly and swiftly brought her blue-despatch box from beside her writing-table and unlocked it with her bracelet key—while Michael with an anxious, puzzled face watched her intently. She sat down again beside him when she had found what she sought—the closed blue leather case which she had looked at so many times.

"If you are going to show me some brute's photograph I simply refuse to look," Michael said. "All that part of your life is over and we are going to begin afresh, darling one, no matter what you did."

 But she crept nearer to him as she opened the case—and her voice was full and sweet, shy tenderness as she blurted out:

 "It is not a brute's photograph, Michael, it is the picture of your own little son."

"My God!" cried Michael, the sudden violent emotion making him very pale. "Sabine— how dared you keep this from me all these years—I—" Then he seized her in his arms and for a few seconds they could neither of them speak—his caresses were so fierce. At last he exclaimed brokenly, "Sabine—with the knowledge of this between us how could you ever have even contemplated belonging to another man—Oh! if I had only known. Where is—my son?"

"You must listen, Michael, to everything," Sabine whispered, "then you will understand—I was simply terrified when I realized at last, and only wanted to go back to you and be comforted, so I wrote a letter at once to tell you, and as Mr. Parsons was in England again I sent it to him to have it put safely into your hands. But by then you had gone right off to China, and Mr. Parsons sent the letter back to me, it was useless to forward it to you, he said, you might not get it for a year."

 Michael strained her to his heart once more, while his eyes grew wet.

 "Oh, my poor little girl—all alone, how frightfully cruel it was, no wonder you hated me then, and could not forgive me even afterward."

"I did not hate you—I was only terrified and longing to rush off somewhere and hide—so Simone suggested San Francisco—the furthest off she knew, and we hurried over there and then I was awfully ill, and when my baby was born I very nearly died."

Michael was wordless, he could only kiss her. "That is what made him so delicate—my wretchedness and rushing about," she went on, "and so I was punished because, after three months, God took him back again—my dear little one—just when I was beginning to grow comforted and to love him. He was exactly like you, Michael, with the same blue eyes, and I thought—I thought, we should go back to Arranstoun and finish our estrangements and be happy again—the three of us—when you did come home—I grew radiant and quite well—" Here two big tears gathered in her violet eyes and fell upon Michael's hand, and he shivered with the intensity of his feelings as he held her close.

"We had made our plans to go East—but my little sweetheart caught cold somehow—and then he died—Oh! I can't tell you the grief of it, Michael, I was quite reckless after that— it was in June and I did not care what happened to me for a long while. I just wanted to get back to Moravia, not knowing she had left Paris for Rome—and then I crossed in July—and came here to Brittany and saw and bought Héronac as I told you before. I heard then that you had not returned from China or made any sign—and it seemed all so cruel and ruthless, and as there were no longer any ties between us I thought that I would crush you from my life and forget you, and that I would educate myself and make something of my mind."

"Oh, my dear, my dear little girl," Michael sighed. "If you knew how all this is cutting me to the heart to think of the awful brute I have been—to think of you bearing things all alone—I somehow never realized the possibility of this happening—but once or twice when it did cross my mind I thought of course you would have cabled to me if so—I am simply appalled now at the casual selfishness of my behavior—can you ever forgive me, Sabine?"

 She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, now soft and glistening with tears.

 "Of course I can forgive you, Michael—I belong to you, you see——"

 So when he had kissed her enough in gratitude and contrition he besought her to go on.

"The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you—and my life grew so peaceful with the Père Anselme and Madame Imogen here at Héronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies kept developing for me. I seemed to grow up and realize things and the memory of you grew less and less—but society never held out any attractions for me—only to be with Moravia. I had taken almost a loathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory, not a single one attracted me in the least degree— until this summer at Carlsbad when we met Henry. And he appeared so good and true and kind—and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guiding hand to greatness of purpose in life—I liked him—but I must tell you the truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am," here she held tightly to Michael's hand—"I do not think I would ever have promised him at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in the paper that you were at Ostende—with Daisy Van der Horn. That exasperated me—even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent to you after five years. I had never seen your name in the paper before, it was the first indication I had had that you had come home—and the whole thing wounded my pride. I felt that I must ask for my freedom from you before you possibly could ask for yours from me. So I told Henry that very night that I had made up my mind."

 "Oh! you dear little goose," Michael interrupted. "Not one of those ladies mattered to me more than the other—they were merely to pass the time of day, of no importance whatever."

"I dare say—but I am telling you my story, Michael—Well, Henry was so wonderful, so good—and it got so that he seemed to mean everything fine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less and less to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite—except for the irritation I felt about Daisy—and then by that extraordinary turn of fate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the name of the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurried postscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one—I saw you both arrive from the lodge, and when I heard the tones of your voice—Ah! well, you can imagine what it meant!"

 "No, I want to know, little darling—what did it mean?" and Michael looked into her eyes with fond command.

 "It made my heart beat and my knees tremble and a strange thrill came over me—I ought to have known then that to feel like that did not mean indifference—oughtn't I?"

 "I expect so—but what a moment it was when we did meet, you must come to that!"

"Arrogant, darling creature you are, Michael! You love to make me recount all these things," and Sabine looked so sweetly mutinous that he could not remain tranquilly listening for the moment, but had to make passionate love to her—whispering every sort of endearment into her little ear—though presently she continued the recital of her story again:

"I stood there in the lodge after the shock of seeing you had passed, and I began to burn with every sort of resentment against you—I had had all the suffering and you had gone free—and I just felt I wanted to punish you by pretending not to know you! Think of it! How small—and yet there underneath I felt your old horribly powerful charm!"

 "Oh, you did, did you! You darling," Michael exclaimed—and what do you suppose I felt—if we had only rushed there and then into each other's arms!"

"I was quite prepared for you in the garden—and did not I play my part well! You got quite white, you know with surprise—and I felt exquisitely excited. I could see you had come in all innocence—having probably forgotten our joking arrangement that I should call myself Mrs. Howard—I could not think why you did not speak out and denounce me. It hurt my pride, I thought it was because you wanted to divorce me and marry Daisy that you were indifferent about it. I did not know it was because you had given your word of honor to Henry not to interfere with the woman he loved. Then after dinner Henry told me you knew that he and I were practically engaged—that stung me deeply—it seemed to prove your indifference—so things developed and we met in the garden—Michael, was not that a wonderful hour! How we both acted. If you had indicated by word or look that you remembered me, I could not have kept it up, we should have had to tell Henry then— we were playing at cross-purposes and my pride was wounded."

 "I understand, sweetheart, go on."

"Well, I was miserable at luncheon, and then when you went out in the boat—being with you was like some intoxicating drink—I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. I was horrid toward Henry, I would not own it to myself, but I felt him to be the stumbling block in the way. So I was extra nice to him to convince myself—and I let him hold my arm, which I had never done before and you saw that in the garden. I suppose— and thought I loved him and so went—that was nice of you, Michael—but stupid, wasn't it!"

"Ridiculously stupid, everything I did was stupid that separated you from me. The natural action of my character would have been just to seize you again and carry you off resisting or unresisting to Arranstoun, but some idiotic sentiment of honor to Henry held me."

"I cried a little, I believe, when I got your note—I went up into this room and opened this despatch-box and read your horrid letter again—and I believe I looked into the blue leather case, too"—here she opened it once more—and they both examined it tenderly. "Of course you can't see anything much in this little photograph—but he really was so like you, Michael, and when I looked at it again after seeing you, I could have sobbed aloud, I wanted you so——"

 "My dear, dear, little girl——"

"Henry had told me casually that afternoon your story, and how he had not stayed at Arranstoun for the wedding because he thought your action so unfair to the bride!—and how that now you felt rather a dog in the manger about her. That infuriated me! Can't you understand I had only one desire, to show you that I did not care since you had gone off. Henry was simply angelic to me—and asked me so seriously if he could really make me happy, if not he would release me then. I felt if he would take me, all bruised and restless, and comfort me and bring me peace, I did indeed wish to be his wife—and if nothing more had happened we might have grown quite happy from then, but we went to England—and I saw you again—and—Oh! well, Michael, need I tell you any more? You know how we fenced and how at last we could not bear it—up in Mrs. Forster's room!"

 "It was the most delirious and most unhappy moment of my life, darling."

"And now it is all over—isn't Henry a splendid man? I told him all this yesterday—the Père Anselme had suggested to him to come and ask me for the truth. He behaved too nobly—but I did not know what he intended to do, nor if it were too late to stop the divorce or anything, so I was miserable."

"You shall not be so any more—we will go back to Arranstoun at once, darling, and begin a new and glorious life together. From every point of view that is the best thing to be done. We could not possibly go on all staying here, it would be grotesque—and I am quite determined that I will never leave you again—do you hear, Sabine?" And he turned her face and made her look into his eyes.

 "Yes, I hear!—and know that you were always the most masterful creature!"

 "Do you want to change me?"

 But Sabine let herself be clasped in his arms while she abandoned herself to the deep passionate joy she felt.

 "No—Michael—I would not alter you in one little bit, we are neither of us very good or very clever, but I just love you and you love me—and we are mates! There!"

They carried out their plans and arrived at Arranstoun Castle a few days later. Michael wired to have everything ready for their reception and both experienced the most profound emotion when first they entered Michael's sitting-room again.

 "There is the picture, darling, that you fell through and—here is Binko waiting to receive and welcome you!"

The mass of fat wrinkles got up from his basket and condescended, after showing a wild but suppressed joy at the sight of his master, to be re-introduced to his mistress who expressed due appreciation of his beauty.

 "That old dog has been my only confidant about you, Sabine, ever since I came back—he could tell you how frantic I was, couldn't you, Binko?"

Binko slobbered his acquiescence and then the tea was brought in; Sabine sat down to pour it out in the very chair she had sat in long ago. She was taller now, but still her little feet did not reach the ground.

The most ecstatic happiness was permeating them both, and it all seemed like a divine dream to be there together and alone. They reconstructed every incident of their first meeting in a fond duet—each supplying a link, and they talked of all their new existence together and what it would mean, and presently Michael drew Sabine toward the chapel where the lights were all lit.

"Darling," he whispered, "I want to make new vows of love and tenderness to you here, because to-night is our real wedding night—I want you to forget that other one and blot it right out."

But Sabine moved very close to him as she clung to his arm, and her whole soul was in her eyes as she answered:

 "I do not want to forget it. I know very well that I had begun to love you even then. But, Michael—do you remember that undecorated window which you told me had been left so probably for you to embellish as an expiatory offering, because rapine and violence were in the blood—Well, dear love, I think we must put up the most beautiful stained glass together there—in memory of our little son. For we are equally to blame for his brief life and death."

 But Michael was too moved to speak and could only clasp her hand.

 THE END