The Man and the Moment | Page 9

voice. "'My dear
Sabine--have you considered,' and he is lanky--and Oh! I detest him,
and I can't imagine why I ever said I would marry him--but if I don't,
what am I to do with Aunt Jemima for four years! I should die of it."
Michael sat on the edge of the table and looked at her long and deeply.
He took in the childish picture she made in the big chair. He had no
definite appreciation then of her charm, his mind was too fixed upon
what seemed a prospect of certain escape from Violet Hatfield and her
cunning thirty years of experience. This young thing could not interfere
with him, and divorces in Scotland were not impossible things--they
would both gain what they wanted for the time, and it was a fair
bargain. So he said, after a moment:
"I will go up to London to-morrow, and if it is as you say that you are
free to marry whom and when you will, I will try to get this old
lawyer's consent and a special license--But how about your Uncle? Has
he not any legal right over you?"
Miss Delburg laughed contentedly.
"Not in the least--only that I have to live with him until I am married.
Mr. Parsons--that's the lawyer's name--hates him, and he hates Mr.
Parsons. So I know Mr. Parsons will be delighted to spite him by
giving his consent, if you just say Uncle Mortimer is trying to force me
into a marriage against my will with his nephew--Samuel Greenbank is

his nephew, you know--no relation to me. It is Aunt Jemima who is
Papa's sister."
All this seemed quite convincing. Michael felt relieved.
"I see," he said. "Well, it appears simple enough. I believe I could be
back by Thursday, and I could have my chaplain and a friend of mine,
and we could get the affair over in the chapel--and then you can go
back to the Inn with your certificate--and I can go to Paris--free!" And
his thoughts added, "And even if poor Maurice does die soon, I need
fear nothing!"
Now that their two fates seemed settled, Miss Delburg got out of the
chair and stood up in a dignified way; her soft cheeks were the color of
a glowing pink rose, and her violet eyes shone with fun and excitement,
her little, irregular features and perfect teeth seemed to add to the
infantine aspect of the picture she made in her unfashionable pink
cotton frock. Dress had been strongly discouraged at the Convent, and
was looked upon by Aunt Jemima, a strict New Englander, as a snare of
the devil, but even the garment, in the selecting of which she had had
no hand, seemed to hang with grace upon the child's slim figure.
Not a doubt as to the future clouded her thoughts; it was all a glorious
piece of fun, and of all the daring tricks she had perpetrated at the
Convent to get chocolates, or climb a tree, or have a midnight orgy of
cake and sirop, none had been so exciting as this--to go through the
ceremony of marriage and be free for life!
Her education had been of the most elementary, and the whole aim of
those placed over her had been to keep her as innocent and ignorant as
a child of ten. Not a single problem of life had ever presented itself to
her naturally intelligent mind. She had read no books, conversed with
no grown-up people, played with no one but her companions, three
American girls and a few French ones, and the simple Nuns. And since
her emancipation, she had but wandered in the English lakes with her
uncle and aunt and Samuel Greenbank, and so had come to Arranstoun
like any other tourist to see this famous castle still inhabited after
eleven hundred years.

In these days of women giving daily proof of their capability for
irritating mischief, if not of their ability to rule nations, Sabine Delburg
was a very unique being, and could not have existed but for a
combination of rare circumstances, as she was half American and half
French and had inherited the quick understanding of both nations. But
from the age of seven, she had never seen the outside world. It is not
my place, in any case, to explain what she was or was not. The creature,
with all her faults and charms, is there to speak for herself--and if you,
my friend, who are reading this tale on a summer's day do not feel you
want to hear any more of what happened to these two young things, by
all means put down the book and go your way!
So let us get back to Mr. Arranstoun's sitting-room and the June
afternoon, and