Chapter 22

Lord Fordyce found himself dressing in the usual way and with the usual
care, such creatures of habit are we--and yet, two hours earlier, he had
felt that life was over for him. Although he did not know it, Moravia
had been like a strong restorative applied at the right moment, and the
crisis of his agony had gone by. It was not that he was not still
overcome by sorrow, or that moments of complete anguish would not recur,
but the current had been diverted from taking a fatal turn, and
gradually things would mend. The perfect, practical common sense of
Moravia was so good for him. She was not intellectual like Sabine, she
was just a dear, beautiful, kind, ordinary woman, extremely in love with
him, but too truly American ever to lose her head, and now in real
spirits at the prospect of playing so delightful a game. She was
thoroughly versed in the ways of male creatures, and although she
possessed none of Sabine's indescribable charm, she had had numbers of
admirers and would-be lovers and was in every way fitted to cope with
any man. This evening, she had determined so to soothe, flatter and pet
Henry that he should go to bed not realizing that there was any change
in himself, but should be in reality completely changed. Her
preparations had been swift but elaborate. She had rushed to Madame
Imogen's room, and got her to take special messages to the chef, and
dinner would be waited on by her own maid--with Nicholas just to run in
and open the champagne. Then she selected a ravishing rose-pink chiffon
tea-gown, all lacy and fresh, and lastly she had a big fire made up and
all the curtains drawn, and so she awaited Henry's coming with
anticipations of delight. She had even got Mr. Cloudwater (that _pere
aprivois�!_) to mix her two dry Martini cocktails, which were ready for
her guest.

Henry knocked at the door exactly at eight o'clock, and she went to meet
him with all the air of authority of a mother, and led him into the
room, pushing him gently into the chair she had prepared for him. A man
may have a broken heart--but the hurt cannot feel so great when he is
surrounded with every comfort and ministered to by a beautiful young
woman, who is not only in love with him, but has the nerve to keep her
head and not neglect a single point which can be of use in her game.

If she had shown him too much sympathy, or just been ultra-refined and
silent and adoring, Henry by this time would have been quite as unhappy
as he had been at first; but he was too courteous by nature not to try
to be polite and appreciative of kindness when she tendered it so
frankly, no matter what his inward feelings might be--and this she knew
she could count upon and meant to exploit. She argued very truly that if
he were obliged to act, it would brace him up and be beneficial to him,
even though at the moment he would much prefer to be alone. So now she
made him drink the cocktail, and then she deliberately spoke of Sabine,
wondering if she would be awfully surprised to see Michael, and if he
would take her back with him to Arranstoun. Henry winced at every word,
but he had to answer, and presently he found he did not feel so sad.
Then, with dexterity, she turned the conversation to English politics
and got him to explain points to her, and at every moment she poured in
insidious flattery and frank, kind affection, so that by the time the
ice had come, Henry had begun to feel unaccountably soothed. She was
really a beautiful woman and arranged with a wonderful _chic_, and he
realized that she had never looked more charming or been so sweet. She
had all the sense of power being on her side, now that she had a free
hand, unhampered by honor to her friend, and when the dessert and the
cigarettes had come, she felt that she might indulge in a little
sentiment.

She remembered that he only smoked cigars, and got up and helped him to
light one of his own; and when she was quite close to him, she put her
hand out and stroked his hair.

"Even if he does not like it at first," she told herself, "he is too
polite to say so, and presently, just because he is a man, it will give
him a thrill."

"I do love your light hair, Henry," she said aloud, "and it is so well
brushed. You Englishmen are certainly _soigne_ creatures, and I like
your lazy, easy grace--as though you would never put yourself out for
any one. I can't bear a fuss." She puffed her cigarette and did not wait
for him to answer her, but prattled on perfectly at ease. Even his
courtesy would not have prevented him from snubbing her, if she had been
the least tentative in her caressings, or the least diffident. But she
just took it as a matter of course that she could stroke his hair if she
wanted to, and presently it began to give him a sensation of pleasure
and rest. If she had, by word or look, suggested that she expected some
return, Henry would have frozen at once--but all she did was apparently
only to please herself, and so he had no defense to make. Still in the
character of domestic tyrant, she presently led him to the comfortable
armchair, and once more seated herself upon the stool close to the fire
by his side. Here she was silent for a few moments, letting the comfort
of the whole scene sink in to his brain--and then, when the maid came in
to clear away the dinner-table, she got up and went to the piano, where
she played some soft, but not sentimental tunes. Music of a certain sort
would be the worst thing for him, but a light air while Marie was in the
room could do no harm. Though, when she went over close to him again,
she saw that even this pause had allowed him time to think, and that his
face was once more overcome by melancholy, although he greeted her with
a smile.

Something further must be done.

"Henry," she said, cooingly, kneeling down beside him and taking his
hand, "will you promise me something, please. I am not clever like you,
but I do know one splendid recipe for taking away pain; every time the
thought of Sabine comes up to you and the old pictures you used to hold,
look them squarely in the face, and then deliberately replace them with
others that you can obtain--the strange law of periodicity will be in
motion and, if you have only will enough, gradually the pictures that
can be yours will unconsciously have taken the place of the old ones
which have caused you pain. Is it not much better to do that than just
to let yourself grieve--surely it is more like a man?"

Henry looked at her, a little startled. This idea had never presented
itself to him. Yes, it was certainly more like a man to try any measure
than "just to grieve," and what if there should be some truth in this
suggestion--? What did the "law of periodicity" mean? What an American
phrase! How apt they were at coining expressive sentences. He looked
into the glowing ashes--there he seemed to see in ruins the whole fabric
of his dreams--but if there was a law which brought thoughts back, and
back again at the same hour each day, then Moravia was right: he must
blot out the old pictures and conjure up new ones--but what could they
be--?

"You are musing, Henry," Moravia's voice went on. "Are you thinking over
what I said? I hope so, and you will find it is true. See, I will tell
you what to visualize there in the fire. You are looking at a splendid
English home, all peace and warmth, and you see yourself in it happy and
surrounded by friends. And you see yourself a great man, the center of
political interest, and everything coming toward you that heart can
desire. It is awfully wanting in common sense to think because you
cannot obtain one woman there are none others in the world."

"Awfully," agreed Henry--suddenly taking in the attractive picture she
made, seated there at his knees, her white hand holding his hand. His
thoughts wandered for a moment, as thought will do when the mind is
overstrained; they wandered to the speculation of why American women
should have such small and white hands, and then he brought himself back
to the actual conversation.

"You mean to tell me," he said, "that if every time I remember, when I
am dwelling upon the subject which pains me, that I must make my
thoughts turn to other things which give me pleasure, that gradually the
new thoughts will banish the old?"

"Of course, I mean that," Moravia told him. "Everything comes in
cycles; that is why people get into habits. You just try, Henry; you can
cure the habit of pain as easily as you can cure any habit. It is all a
question of will."

She saw that she had created interest in his eyes, and rejoiced. That
crisis had passed! and it would be safe to go on.

"I shall not get him to kiss me to-night, after all," she decided to
herself. "If I did, he would probably feel annoyed to-morrow, with some
ridiculous sense of a too sudden disloyalty to Sabine's memory--and he
might be huffed with himself, too, thinking he had given way; it might
wound his vanity. I shall just draw him right out and make him want to
kiss me, but not consciously--and then it will be safe when he is at
that pitch to let him go off to bed."

This plan she proceeded to put into practice. She exploited the subject
they had been talking of to its length, and aroused a sharp discussion
and argument--while she took care to place herself in the most alluring
attitudes as close to Henry as she possibly could be, while maintaining
a basis of frank friendship, and then she changed the current by getting
him to explain to her exactly what he had done about Michael, and how
they should arrange the meeting between the two, putting into her
eagerness all the sparkle that she would have used in collaborating with
him over the placing of the presents upon a Christmas tree--until, at
last, Henry began to take some sort of pride in the thing itself.

"I want you to let Sabine think you are just going to forgive her for
her deception, but intend her to keep her word to you; and then you can
take Mr. Arranstoun up to her sitting-room when you have brought him
from the Pere Anselme's--and just push him in and let them explain
matters themselves. Won't it be a moment for them both!"

Henry writhed.

"Yes," he gasped, "a great moment."

"And you are not going to care one bit, Henry," Moravia went on, with
authority. "I tell you, you are not."

Then, having made all clear as to their joint action upon the morrow,
she spent the last half hour before they parted in instilling into his
spirit every sort of comfort and subtle flattery until, when the clock
struck eleven, Henry felt a sense of regret that he must say good-night.

By this time, her head was within a few inches of his shoulder, and her
pretty eyes were gazing into his with the adoring affection of a child.

"You are an absolute darling, Moravia," he murmured, with some emotion,
"the kindest woman in this world," and he bent and kissed her hair.

She showed no surprise--to take the caress naturally would, she felt,
leave him with the pleasure of it, and arouse no disturbing
analyzations in his mind as to its meaning.

"Now you have got to go right off to your little bed," she said, in a
matter of fact 'mother' tone, "and I should just like to come and tuck
you up, and turn your light out--but as I can't, you'll promise me you
will do it yourself at once--and close those eyes and go to sleep." Here
she permitted herself softly to shut his lids with her smooth fingers.

Henry felt a delicious sense of comfort and peace creeping over him--he
knew he did not wish to leave her--but he got up and took both her
hands.

"Good-night, you sweet lady," he said. "You will never know how your
kind heart has helped me to-night, nor can I express my gratitude for
your spontaneous sympathy," with which he kissed the fair hands, and
went regretfully toward the door.

Moravia thought this the right moment to show a little further
sentiment.

"Good-night, Henry," she faltered. "It has been rather heaven for
me--but I don't think I'll let you dine up here alone with me
again--it--it might make my heart ache, too." And then she dexterously
glided to the door of her bed-room and slipped in, shutting it softly.

And Henry found himself alone, with some new fire running in his veins.

When Moravia, listening, heard his footsteps going down the passage, she
clasped her hands in glee.

"I 'shall never know'! 'My spontaneous sympathy'!--Oh! the darling,
innocent babe! But I've won the game. He will belong to me now--and I
shall make him happy. Ouida was most certainly right when she said, 'Men
are not vicious; they are but children.'"