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[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.