The Man and the Moment

by Elinor Glyn

The violet eyes were glowing as stars might glow could they be angry—and their owner turned away from the sea with a fine shrug of her shoulders—her thoughts were raging. So that is how Michael looked upon the affaire! He was just the dog in the manger, and she was the hay! But never, never would she submit to that! She would speak to him when he came in and ask him to divorce her at once. Why should Henry ever know?—even if Scotch divorces were reported she would appear, not as Mrs. Howard, but as Mrs. Arranstoun,—then a discouraging thought came—only Sabine was such an uncommon name—if it were not for that he might never guess. But whether Henry ever knew or did not know, the sooner she were free the better, and then she would marry him and adorn his great position in the world—and Michael would see her there, and how well she fulfilled her duties—so even yet she would be able to punish him as he deserved! Hay! Indeed! Never, never, never!

Then she knew she must have been answering at random some of Lord Fordyce's remarks, for a rather puzzled look was on his face.

A strong revulsion of feeling came to her. Henry suddenly appeared in his best guise—and a wave of tenderness for him swept over her. How kind and courteous and devoted he was—treating her always as his queen. She could be sure of homage here—and that far from being hay; she would be the most valued jewel in his crown of success. She would rise into spheres where she would be above the paltry emotions caused by a hateful man just because he had "it"!

So she gave her hand to Henry in a burst of exuberance and let him place it in his arm, and then lead her back into the château and through all the rooms, where they discussed blues and greens and stuffs and furniture and the lowering of this doorway and the heightening of that, and at last they drifted to the garden and to the lavender hedge—but she would not take him into the summer-house or again look out on the sea.

All through her sweetness there was a note of unrest—and Henry's fine senses told him so—and this left the one drop of bitterness in his otherwise blissful cup.

Michael meanwhile was expending his energy and his passion in swift movement in the boat—but after a while he rested on his oars and then he began to think.

There was no use in going on with the game after all—he ought to go away at once. If he stayed and saw her any more he would not be able to leave her at all. He knew he would only break his promise to Henry—tell Sabine that he had fallen madly in love with her—implore her again to forgive him for everything in the past and let them begin afresh. But he was faced with the horrible thought of the anguish to Henry—Henry, his old friend, who trusted him and who was ten times more worthy of this dear woman than he was himself.

He had never been so full of impotency and misery in his life—not even on that morning in June when he woke and found Sabine had left him—defied him and gone—after everything. Pure rage had come to his aid then—but now he had only remorse and longing—and anger with fate.

"It must all depend upon whether or no she loves Henry," he said to himself at last—"and this I will make her tell me this very afternoon."

But when he got back and went into the garden he happened to witness a scene.