The Man and the Moment | Page 3

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