Part 21 (1/2)

”He only stayed one night--he was quite a nice creature--Mr.

Arranstoun.”

”Of the castle?” The Princess was thrilled. ”Why, darling, he must be the one that they say is going to marry Daisy Van der Horn. He has got some matrimonial tangle like you have, and when he is through with it, Daisy is such dead nuts on him, they say she is certain to get him to marry her! Do tell me exactly what he is like--I am not over fond of Daisy, you know--but she is a splendid specimen of dash and vim.”

”He is good-looking, Morri--and he has got 'it.'”

”I gathered that from all that I have heard of him here. Old Miss Buskin, Daisy's aunt, you remember the old horror, says he is 'just too sweet,' and 'that sa.s.sy'--you know her frightfully vulgar way of speaking!--that even she is 'afraid to be alone in the room with him!'”

”I dare say--he--looked like that--he ought to suit Daisy,” and then Sabine felt she had been spiteful and tried to divert matters by asking where Mr. Cloudwater was.

”Papa will be in in a moment. He has been dying for you to come back.”

But the Princess had not done with Mr. Arranstoun yet. The Van der Horn coterie had rung with his exploits on her return from Italy, and the lurid picture had interested her deeply.

”I do wish I had been at Heronac, Sabine, I would love to have seen that young man. Daisy's aunt told me he was wild about her niece, and at one moment she thought everything was settled--it must have been after he came back from Brittany--and then he went off to England--probably he does not like to speak out until he is free.”

Sabine felt that strange sensation she had experienced once before, of heart sinking--and then, furious with herself, she mastered it and became more determined than ever to carry out her intention of growing accustomed to hearing of, and talking about Michael calmly.

”You are sure to meet him in England,” she said; ”he is a great friend of Henry's.”

But afterwards, when she was alone resting in her cosy room before dinner, she deliberately pulled the blue despatch-box toward her and looked at some of its contents, while tears gathered in her eyes, which even the cynical thoughts which she was calling to her aid could not quite suppress. Would things have been different if she had been able to send Michael the letter which she had written to him in the September of 1907? The letter she had asked Mr. Parsons, who was again in London, to have delivered to him, into his hand--and which came back to her in Paris with the information from the old lawyer that Mr. Arranstoun had left England for the wilds of China and Tibet, and might not get any letters for more than a year. She remembered how that night she had cried herself to sleep with misery, and with a growing regret at having left Michael, and a pitiful longing just to be clasped once more in his strong arms and comforted. Oh! the hateful wretched memories! To have gone off at once to China like that proved his callousness and indifference. Then, in spite of herself, her thoughts would review all he had said to her on that morning in the garden. No--there had not been one word of meaning, not even any suggestion of regret that she was practically engaged to Henry. There had been some faint allusion to people being fools--and brutes when young, but not that they would wish to repair the faults which they had committed then. The whole thing was plain--he had never really cared an atom for her. He had been only affected by pa.s.sion, even on her wedding night when he was pouring love vows into her startled ears.

”He was probably horribly surprised to come upon me at Heronac,” her thoughts now ran, ”and then just sampled me--and went off as soon as he could--back to Daisy in Paris!”

Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears.

Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun. She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption in Henry, and her complete indifference to himself. His vanity would be wounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger. That would be her only revenge--and what a paltry one! She felt that--and was ashamed of herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love is wounded and the pa.s.sion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabine was no better nor worse than any other woman probably. Once more she made resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael either good or bad. It was perfectly sickening--the humiliation and degradation of his so frequently coming into her mind. She pulled the despatch-box nearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope a brown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire.

”There! that is done with--ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!”

And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone and began to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks.

They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them at Charing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel.

How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked! He was as ever a soothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing in deciding to link her life with his.

But it was not so with Moravia. Lord Fordyce had attracted her from the moment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again had boiled up; and alas! Moravia--beautiful young widow and Princess--found herself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeply interested in the declared lover of her friend. Henry for her had every charm. He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with that well-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabine had always said irritated her so.

It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminine instinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all. If she had felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it was fate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actually to feel unhappy. They were continually surrounded with friends, and at every meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delight in. People were just beginning to come back to London, and they had amusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry's family, an intelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them. The Princess had very seldom been in London before--and quite understood that, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoilt all her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn's pet expressions, ”terribly amused.” Sabine, as the days wore on, and she was under Henry's influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grew happy, and heard Michael's name without a tremor.

For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much she would like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris.

”I had a letter from him this morning,” Lord Fordyce said. ”He is shooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Friday night. I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what you think of him. He really is a very charming fellow, for all his recklessness--and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you of him are overdrawn.”

”Oh, I hope not!” Moravia laughed. ”Do not disillusion me!”

Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who had wired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Friday and go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would find another occasion to present his friend.