An opalescence of soft light and peace and beauty was over the park of
Arranstoun on this June night of its master's wedding, and he walked
among the giant trees to the South Lodge gate, only a few hundred yards
from the postern, which he reached from his sitting-room. All had gone
well in London. Mr. Parsons had raised no objection, being indeed
greatly flattered at the proposed alliance--for who had not heard of the
famous border Castle of Arranstoun and envied its possessor?
They had talked a long time and settled everything.
"Tie up the whole of Miss Delburg's money entirely upon herself," Mr.
Arranstoun had said--"if it is not already done--then we need not bother
about settlements. I understand that she is well provided for."
"And how about your future children?" Mr. Parsons asked.
Michael stiffened suddenly as he looked out of the office window.
"Oh--er, they will naturally have all I possess," he returned quickly.
And now as he neared the Lodge gate, and nine o'clock struck, a
suppressed excitement was in his veins. For no matter how eventful your
life may be, or how accustomed you are to chances and vivid amusements,
to be facing a marriage ceremony with a practically unknown young woman
has aspects of originality in it calculated to set the pulses in motion.
He had almost forgotten that side of the affair which meant freedom and
safety for him from the claws of the Spider--although he had learned
upon his return home from London that she had, as Henry Fordyce had
predicted that she might, "popped in upon him," having motored over from
Ebbsworth, and had left him a letter of surprised, intense displeasure
at his unannounced absence.
When five minutes had passed, and there was as yet no sign of his
promised bride crossing the road from the Inn, Mr. Arranstoun began to
experience an unpleasant impatience. The quarter chimed--his temper
rose--had she been playing a trick upon him and never intended at any
time to come? He grew furious--and paced the fine turf behind the Lodge,
swearing hotly as was his wont when enraged.
Then he saw a little figure wrapped in a gray dust cloak much too big
for it advancing cautiously to the gate in the twilight, and he bounded
forward to meet her and to open the narrow side-entrance before the
Lodge-keeper, Old Bessie, could have time to see who was there.
"At last!" he cried, when they were safely inside and had gone a few
paces along the avenue. "I was beginning to think you did not mean to
keep your word! I am glad you have come!"
"Why, of course I meant to keep my word. I never break it," Sabine said
astonished. "I am longing to be free just like you are, but I had an
awful business to get away! I have never been so excited in my life!
Their train was late--some breakdown on the branch line--they did not
get in until half-past eight, and I dare not be all dressed, but had to
pretend to be in bed, covered up, still with the awful headache, when
Aunt Jemima bounced in." Then she laughed joyously at the recollection
of her escape. "The moment she had gone off to her supper, tucking me up
for the night, I jumped up and got on my dress and hat and her dust
cloak and then I had to watch my moment, creep down those funny little
stairs, and out of the side door--and so across here. You know it was
far harder to manage than the last feast Moravia Cloudwater and I gave
to the girls the night before she went to Paris! Isn't it fun! I do like
having these adventures, don't you?"
"Yes," said Michael, and looked down into her face.
She was extremely pretty, he thought, in the soft dusk of this Northern
evening. Her leghorn hat with its wreath of blue forget-me-nots was most
becoming and her brown hair was ruffled a little by the hat's hasty
donning.
[Illustration: "He bounded forward to meet her"]
"I needn't keep this old cloak on, need I?" she asked. "Nobody can see
us here and it is so hot."
He helped her off with it and carried it for her. She looked prettier
still now, the slender lines of her childish figure were so exquisite in
their promise of beautiful womanhood later on, and the Sunday frock of
white foulard was most sweet.
Michael was very silent; it almost made her nervous, but she prattled
on.
"This is my best frock," she laughed, "because even though it is only a
business arrangement, one couldn't get married in an old blouse, could
one?"
"Of course not!" and he strode nearer to her. "I am in evening dress,
you see--just like a French bridegroom for those wedding parties in the
Bois! so we are both festive--but here we are at the postern door!"
He opened it with his key and they stole across the short lawn and up
the balcony steps like two stealthy marauders. Then he turned and held
out his hand to her in the blaze of electric light.
"Welcome! Oh! it is good of you to have come!"
She shook hands frankly--it seemed the right thing to do, she felt,
since they were going to oblige one another and both gain their desires.
Then it struck her for the first time that he was a very handsome young
man--quite the Prince Charming of the girls' dreams. A thousand times
finer than Moravia's Italian prince with whom for her part she had been
horribly disappointed when she had seen his photograph. Only it was too
silly to consider this one in that light, since he wasn't really going
to be hers--only a means to an end. Oh! the pleasure to be free and rich
and to do exactly what she pleased! She had been planning all these days
what she would do. She would get back to the Inn not later than ten, and
creep quietly up to her room through that side door which was always
open into the yard. The weather was so beautiful it would be nothing,
even if the Inn people did see her entering--she might have been out for
a stroll in the twilight. Then at six in the morning she would creep out
again and go to the station; there was a train which left for Edinburgh
at half-past--and there she would get a fast express to London later on,
after a good breakfast; and once in London a cab would take her to Mr.
Parsons', and after that!--money and freedom!
She had planned it all. She would leave a letter for her Uncle and Aunt,
saying she was married and had gone and they need not trouble themselves
any more about her. Mr. Parsons would tell her where to stay and help
her to get a good maid like Moravia had, and then she would go to Paris
just as Moravia had done and buy all sorts of lovely clothes; it would
take her perhaps a whole month, and then when she was a very grand,
grown-up lady, she would write to her dear friend and say now she was
ready to accept her invitation to go and stay with her! And what
absolute joy to give Moravia such a surprise! to say she was married and
free! and had quite as nice things as even that Princess! It was all a
simply glorious picture--and but for this kind young man it could never
have been hers--but her fate would have been--Samuel Greenbank or Aunt
Jemima for four years! It was no wonder she felt grateful to him! and
that her handshake was full of cordiality.
Michael pulled himself together rather sharply, the blood was now
running very fast in his veins.
"Wait here," he said to her, "while I go into the chapel to see if Mr.
Fergusson and the two witnesses are ready."
They were--Johnson and Alexander Armstrong--and the old chaplain who had
been Michael's father's tutor and was now an almost doddering old
nonentity also stood waiting in his white surplice at the altar rails.
The candles were all lit and great bunches of white lilies gave forth a
heavy scent. A strange sense of intoxication rose to Michael's brain.
When he returned to his sitting-room he found his bride-to-be arranging
her hat at the old mirror which had reflected her before.
"Won't you take it off?" he suggested--"and see, I have got you some
flowers----" and he brought her a great bunch of stephanotis which lay
waiting upon a table near.
"There is no orange-blossom--because that is for real weddings--but
won't you just put this bit of stephanotis in your hair?" and he broke
off a few blooms.
She was delighted, she loved dressing up, and she fixed it most
becomingly with dexterous fingers above her left ear.
"You do look sweet," he told her. "Now we must come----" and he gave her
his arm. She took it with that grave look of a child acting in a very
serious grown-up play. She was perfectly delicious with her blooming
youth and freshness and dimples--her violet eyes shining like stars, and
her red full lips pouting like appetizing ripe cherries. Michael
trembled a little as he felt her small hand upon his arm.
They walked to the altar rails and the ceremony began.
But, with the first words of the old clergyman's voice, a new and
unknown excitement came over Sabine. The night and the gorgeous chapel
and the candles and the flowers all affected her deeply, just as the
grand feast days used to do at the convent. A sudden realization of the
mystery of things overcame her and frightened her, so that her voice was
hardly audible as she repeated the clergyman's words.
What were these vows she was making before God? She dared not
think--the whole thing was a maze, a dream. It was too late to run
away--but it was terrible--she wanted to scream.
At last she felt her bridegroom place the ring upon her finger, now ice
cold.
And then she was conscious that she was listening to these words:
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
After that she must have reeled a little, for she felt a strong arm
encircle her waist for a moment.
Then she knew she was kneeling and that words of no meaning whatever
were being buzzed over her head.
And lastly she was vividly awakened to burning consciousness by the
first man's kiss which had ever touched her innocent lips.
So she was married--and this was her husband, this splendid, beautiful
young man there beside her in his evening clothes--and it was over--and
she was going away and would never see him again--and what had she
done?--and would God be very angry?--since it was all really in a
church!
Her hand trembled as she wrote her name, Sabine Delburg, for the last
time, and she was shivering all over as she walked back with her
newly-made husband to his sitting-room through the gloomy corridor.
There it was all brilliant light again, the light of soft silk-shaded
lamps--and the center table was cleared and supper for two and opened
champagne awaited them. They were both very pale, and Sabine sat down in
a chair.
"Mr. Fergusson will bring a copy of the certificate in a minute,"
Michael said to her, "and then we can have some supper--but now, come,
we must drink each other's healths."
He poured out the wine into two glasses and handed her one. She had
never tasted champagne before--but sipped it as she was bid. It did not
seem to her a very nice drink--not to be compared to _sirop aux
fraises_--but she knew at weddings people always had champagne.
Michael gulped down a bumper, and it steadied his nerves and the fresh,
vigorously healthy color came back to his face. The whole situation had
excited his every sense.
"Let me wish you all joy--Mrs.--Arranstoun!" he said.
The little bride laughed her rippling laugh. This brought her back to
earth and the material, jolly side of things, it was so funny to hear
herself thus called.
"Oh! that does sound odd!" she cried. "I shall never call myself
that--why, people might know I must be something connected with this
castle, and they would be questioning, and I couldn't have a scrap of
fun! You have got another name--you said it just now, 'Michael Howard
Arranstoun'--that will do. I shall be Mrs. Howard! It is quite
ordinary--and shall I be a widow? I've never thought of all this yet.
Oh! it will be fun."
Every second of the time her charm was further affecting Michael--he was
not conscious of any definite intention--only to talk to her--to detain
her as long as possible. She was like a breath of exquisite spring air
after Violet Hatfield.
Mr. Fergusson here came in from the chapel with the certificate--and his
presence seemed a great bore, and after thanking him for his services,
Michael poured him out some wine to drink their healths, and then the
butler announced that the brougham was waiting at the door to take the
old gentleman home.
Sabine had stood up on his entrance and came forward to wish him
good-bye; now that the certificate was there she intended to go herself
by the balcony steps as soon as he should be safely off by the door.
"Good-bye, my dear young lady, I have known your husband since he was
born, and with all his faults he is a splendid fellow; let me wish you
every happiness and prosperity together and may you be blessed with many
children and peace."
Sabine stiffened--she felt she ought to enlighten the benevolent old
man, who evidently did not understand at all that she was going to trip
off--not as he, just to her own home, but out of Mr. Arranstoun's life
forever--but no suitable words would come, and Michael, afraid of what
she might say, hurried his chaplain off without more ado and then
returned to her and shut the door.
Now they were absolutely alone and the clock struck ten in the courtyard
with measured strokes.
"Let us begin supper," he said, with what calmness he could.
"But I ought to go back at once," his bride protested; "the Inn may be
shut and then what in the world should I do?"
"There is plenty of time, it certainly won't close its doors until
eleven--have some soup--or a cold quail and some salad--and see, I have
not forgotten the wedding-cake--you must cut that!"
Sabine was very hungry; she had had to pretend her head was aching too
much to go with her elders to the ruins of Elbank and had retired to her
room before they left, and had had no tea, and such dainties were not to
be resisted, especially the cake! After all, it could not be any harm
staying just this little while longer since no one would ever know, and
people who got married always did cut their own cakes. So she sat down
and began, he taking every care of her. They had the merriest supper,
and even the champagne, more of which he gave her, did not taste so
nasty after the first sip.
She had quail and salad and a wonderful ice--better than any, even on
the day of the holiday for Moravia's wedding far away in Rome; and
there were marrons glacés, too, and other divine bon-bons--and
strawberries and cream!
She had never enjoyed herself so much in her whole life. Her perfectly
innocent prattle enchanted Michael more and more with its touches of
shrewd common sense. He drank a good deal of champagne, too--and
finally, when it came to cutting the cake time, a wild thought began to
enter his head.
The icing was rather hard, and he had to help her--and stood beside her,
very near.
She looked up smilingly and saw something in his face. It caused her a
sudden wild emotion of she knew not what--and then she felt very nervous
and full of fear.
She moved abruptly away from him to the other side of the table, leaving
the cake--and stood looking at him with great, troubled, violet eyes.
He followed her.
"You little, sweet darling!" he whispered, his voice very deep. "Why
should you ever go away from me--I want to teach you to love me, Sabine.
You belong to me, you know--you are mine. I shall not let you leave me!
I shall keep you and hold you close!"
And he clasped her in his arms.
For he was a man, you see--and the moment had come!