Arranstoun Castle,Scotland,
stamped upon it in red and it bore a date in June, 1907. It had no beginning and thus it ran:
Since after everything I wake to find you have chosen to leave me you can abide by your decision. I will not follow you or ever seek to bring you back. It is useless to ask you if you meant that you forgave me—because your going proves that you really have not—so make what you please of your life as I shall make what I please of mine.Michael Arranstoun.
Since after everything I wake to find you have chosen to leave me you can abide by your decision. I will not follow you or ever seek to bring you back. It is useless to ask you if you meant that you forgave me—because your going proves that you really have not—so make what you please of your life as I shall make what I please of mine.
Michael Arranstoun.
When she put the paper back again, glittering tears gathered and rolled in shining drops down her cheeks.
He had meant that last paragraph then, and he meantit now evidently, since he knew that she was pledged to marry Henry when she should be free, and had made no protest. Perhaps he was glad and intended to marry Miss Daisy van der Horn! Her tears dried suddenly—and her cheeks burned. She must think this situation out, and not just drift. It was plain that Michael had been astonished to the point of stupefaction on seeing her. He could not have known then that his friend wished to marry her—Sabine—only that his friend wished to marry the lady they were going to see. But he knew it afterwards, he knew it at dinner—and yet he said never a word. What could it mean? What could be best to do? Perhaps to see him alone in the morning and ask him to grant her freedom and get the divorce as quickly as possible. She could count upon herself not to betray the slightest feeling in the interview. If only that strange turn of fate had not brought Lord Fordyce into her life, what glorious pleasure she would now take in trying her uttermost to fascinate and attract Michael—not that she desired him for herself!—only to punish him for all the past! But she was not free. She had given her word to Henry. The humiliation of feeling that Michael was making no protest, and would apparently from this fact agree willingly to divorce her, stung her pride and made her want to make him suffer and regret in some way. If she could believe that it was paining him, she would be glad—and if it appeared possible to keep up the pretence of unrecognition for longer than to-morrow, she would certainly do so; it was a frantic excitement in any case, and she adored difficult games. Then as she put the letter back in her despatch-box, her hand touched a large blue enamel locket, and with a shiver she hastily shut down the lid, and as one fleeing from a ghost she ran back to bed.
Michael meanwhile was pacing his room in deep and agitated thought.
How supremely attractive she was! And to have to give her up to Henry; it was too frightfully cruel. But he had absolutely no right to stand in either of their lights. He had not even the right to undermine his friend's influence by deed or look, since he had given him his word of honor that he would not do so. What a blind fool he had been all those years ago to let passionate rage at Sabine's daring to leave him make him write her that letter. He would not have done it if he had not felt such an intolerable brute—and glad to cut the whole thing by accepting Latimer Berkeley's suggestion to join him for the China expedition at once. The Berkeley letter coming that next morning was a stroke of fate. If he had had a day to think about things, he would have followed his impulse after the anger died down, and gone after her to Mr. Parsons' London address, but he had already wired to Latimer and his resentful blood was up.
He remembered how he had not allowed himself tothink of her—but had concentrated his whole mind upon his sport. For it had been tremendous sport and had interested him deeply, that journey to Tibet. And however strong feelings may be at moments—absence and fresh interests dull them. To banish her memory became a good deal easier as time went on, and even the idea to divorce her if she wished did not seem too hard.
But now he had seen her again—and every spell she had cast over him on that June night was renewed ten-fold. She was everything he could desire—she was beautiful and sweet and witty, with a charm which only complete independence and indifference can ever give a woman in the eyes of such a man as he. This he did not reason out—thinking himself a very ordinary person—in fact, never thinking of himself at all or what his temperament was affected by. He did not realize either that the very fact of Sabine's being now out of his reach made her appear the one and only thing he cared to possess. He knew nothing except that he felt perfectly mad with fate—mad with himself for making an unconditional promise to Henry, perfectly furious that he had been too stupid to connect the name of Howard at once with his wife.
And here he was sleeping in her castle—not she sleeping in his! And he was conforming to her lead—not she following his. And the only thing for a gentleman to do under the complicated circumstances was to speedily divorce her according to the Scottish law and let hermarry his friend, Henry Fordyce—give them his blessing and lend them Arranstoun for the honeymoon!
When he got thus far in his meditations, he simply stood in the middle of the room and cursed aloud.
Never in his whole life had bolts or bars or circumstances been allowed to keep him from his will.
And then it did come to his shrewd mind that these things were not circumstances, but were barriers forgedby himself.
"If I had not been such an awful brute—and the moment had not been—as it was—I might have gradually made her love me and kept her always for my own!" his thoughts ran. "Well—we were both too young then—and now I must take the consequences and at least not be a swine to poor old Henry."
With superb irony, among his letters next morning which he had wired to be forwarded to Héronac, there came one from his lawyer, informing him that he had received a guarded communication from his wife's representative, Mr. Parsons—with what practically amounted to a request that he, Mr. Arranstoun, should begin to set the law in motion, to break the bond between them—and his lawyer inquired what his wishes were upon the subject and what should be the nature of their reply?
To get this at Héronac—Sabine's house! He shook with fierce laughter in his bed.
Then his temper got up, and he came to a fresh determination. He would break her pride—she should kneel if she wanted her freedom, she should have it only if she asked him for it herself. He would not leave that day after all! He would stay and play the comedy to its end. While she would not recognize him, he would not recognize her. It was she who had set the pace and the responsibility of not informing Henry lay at her door. It was a damnably exciting game—far beyond polo or even slaying long-haired tigers in Manchuria—and he would play it and bluff without a card in his hand.
He was not a noble hero, you see, but just a strong and passionate young man—with "it"!
The day was so gorgeous—Sabine woke with some kind of joyousness. She was only twenty-two years old and supremely healthy; and however complicated fate seemed to be, when nerves and appetite are perfect and the sun is shining, it is really impossible to feel too gloomy.
Her periwinkle cambric was a reflection of her eyes, and her brown hair seemed filled with rays of gold as she stepped across the courtyard at about ten o'clock on her way to the garden. Her guests would sleep late—and at breakfast at twelve would be time enough to see them.
But Michael caught sight of the top of a wide straw hat, and the flutter of a bluish gown from his window, and did not hesitate for a second. Henry, he knew, wasonly in his bath, while he himself was fully dressed in immaculate white flannels.
It did not take him five minutes to gain the courtyard, or to saunter over the causeway bridge, and into the garden—he had brought the English papers with him, which had been among his post. He would pretend he had sought solitude and would be duly surprised and pleased to encounter his hostess. That he had no business in her private garden at all without her invitation did not trouble him, things like that never blocked his way; he had always been too welcome anywhere for such an aspect even to have presented itself to him.
He played his part to perfection—reconnoitering as stealthily as when he was stalking big game, until he perceived his quarry at the far end among the lavender, giving orders to a gardener. He then turned in the opposite direction, with great unconsciousness, to read the paper in peace apparently being his only care! Here he paced the walk which cut off her retreat from the gate, never glancing up. Sabine saw him of course, and her heart began to beat—was it possible for a man to be so good-looking or so utterly casual and devil-may-care! If she walked toward the arbor turret he would be obliged to see her when she came to the end, and then must come up and say good-morning. She picked up her flower-basket and went that way, and with due surprise and pleasure, Michael looked up from hispaper at exactly the right moment and caught sight of her.
He came toward her with just the proper amount of haste and raised his straw hat in a gay good-morning.
"Isn't it a divine day," he said. "I had to come out and read the papers—and the courtyard looked so dull and I did not know where else to go—it is luck finding you here!"
"I always come into the garden in the morning when it is fine—I know every plant and they are all my friends." Then to hide the pleasurable excitement she was feeling, she bent down and picked a bit of lavender.
"I love that smell—won't you give me some, too?" he pleaded—and she handed him a sprig which he fixed in his white coat. "You have made the most enchanting place of this," he next told her. "Can't we go up and sit in that summer-house while you tell me how you began? Henry said all this was a ruin when you bought it some years ago—it is extraordinarily clever of you."
Not the slightest embarrassment was in his manner, not the smallest look of extra meaning in his eyes; he was simply a guest and she a hostess, out together in the sunlight. A sense of unreality stole over Sabine. It could not be all true—it was just some dream—a little more vivid, that was all, than those which used to come to her of him sometimes during—that year. She almost felt that she would like to put out her hand andtouch him to see if he were tangible or a thing of illusion as she led the way to the turret summer-house.
The wall which protected the garden from the sea was very high and this little tower had been in the original fortifications and had been cleverly adapted to its present use. It was open, with glass which slid back on the southern side, and its great windows looked out over the blue waters and granite rocks on the other. The little bay curved round so that from there you got a three-quarter view of the château.
Sabine put her basket down, and climbing up the wooden step she seated herself upon the high window-seat, her feet dangling while she opened the casement wide. Michael stood beside her leaning upon the sill—so that she was slightly above him.
"What a glorious view!" he exclaimed; "it is certainly a perfect spot. Why, it has everything! The sea and its waves to dash up at it—and then this lovely garden for shelter and peace. What a fortunate young woman you are!"
"Yes, am I not?"
"I have an old castle, too—perhaps Henry has told you about it. We have owned it ever since Adam, I suppose!" and he laughed. "The grim part of this is rather like it in a way; I mean the stone passages and huge rooms—but of course the architecture is different. It has been the scene of every sort of fight. I should like to show it to you some day."
Stupefaction rose in Sabine's mind. After all, had she been mistaken, and had he really not recognized her?—or had her acting of the night before convinced him that his first ideas must be wrong and that she was really not his wife! Excitement thrilled her. But if he was playing a part, she then must certainly play, too, and not speak to him about the divorce until he spoke to her. Thus they were unconsciously the one set against the other and both determined that the other should show first hand. It looked as though the interests of Lord Fordyce might be somehow forgotten!
They talked thus for half an hour, Michael asking questions about Héronac with polite interest and without ever saying a sentence with a double meaning, and she replying with frank information, and both burning with excitement and zest. Then her great charm began to affect him so profoundly that unconsciously something of eagerness and emotion crept into his voice. It was one of those voices full of extraordinarily attractive cadences at any time, and made for the seducing of a woman's ear. Sabine knew that she was enjoying herself with a wild kind of forbidden joy—but she did not analyze its cause. It could not be mean to Henry just to talk about Héronac when she was not by word or look deliberately trying to fascinate his friend—she was only being naturally polite and casual.
"Arranstoun only wants the sea," Michael said at last, "and then it would be as perfect as this. I havea big, old sitting-room, too, that was once part of a great hall, and my bedroom is the other half—a suite all to myself—but I have not been there for five years—I am going back from here."
"How strange to be away from your home for so long," Sabine remarked innocently. "Where have you been?"
Then he told her all about China and Tibet.
"I had taken some kind of distaste for Arranstoun and shirked going there—I shall have to face it now, I suppose, because it is such hard luck on the people when an owner is away, and so one must come up to the scratch."
"Yes," she agreed, "one must always do that."
"I used to think out a lot of things when I was in the wilds—and I grew to know that one is a great fool when young—and a great brute."
She began to pull her lavender to pieces—this conversation was growing too dangerously fascinating and must be stopped at once.
"It is getting nearly breakfast-time," she said gaily, "and I just want to pick a big bunch of sweet peas before the sun gets on them, won't you help me?—and then we will go in."
She slid to the floor before he could put out a hand to assist her, and with her swift, graceful movements led the way to the tall sticks where the last of the summer sweet peas grew.
Here she handed him the basket and told him to work hard—and all the while she chattered of the ways of these flowers, and the trouble she had had to make them grow there, and would not once let the conversation upon this subject flag.
"Some day when I live in England, I suppose I can have a lovely garden there—it is famous for gardens, isn't it? I take inCountry Lifeand try to learn from it."
"Yes," he answered, and grew stiff. The sudden picture of her living in England—with Henry—came to him as an ugly shock.
"Before you settle down in England, I would like you to see Arranstoun,—please promise me to come and stay there before you do? I will have a party whenever you like. I would love to show it to you—every part of it—especially the chapel—it is full of wonderful things!"
If she chose to give him reminders of aspects which hurt, he would do the same!
"It sounds most interesting," she agreed, but had not the courage to make any remarks about the chapel or ask what it contained.
The clock over the gateway struck twelve—and she laughingly started to walk very fast toward the house.
"Madame Imogen and Lord Fordyce will be ravenous—come, let us go quickly—I can even run!"
So they strode on together with the radiant faces ofthose exalted by an exciting game, on the way passing Père Anselme.
And in the cool tapestried antechamber of thesalle-à-manger, they found Henry looking from the window a little wistfully, and a pang of self-reproach struck both their hearts.
Allthrough breakfast, Sabine devoted herself sedulously to Lord Fordyce—and this produced two results. It sent Henry into a seventh heaven and caused Michael to burn with jealous rage. Primitive instincts were a good deal taking possession of him—and he found it extremely difficult to keep up his rôle of disinterested friend. It must be admitted he was in really a very difficult position for any man, and it is not very easy to decide what he ought to have done short of telling Henry the truth at once—but this he found grew every moment more hard to do. It would mean that he would have to leave Héronac immediately. In any case, he must do this directly. Sabine admitted, even to him, that she was his wife. They could not together agree to leave Henry in ignorance, that would be deliberately deceiving, and would make them both feel too mean. But while nothing was even tacitly confessed, there seemed some straw for his honor to grasp; he clutched at it knowing its flimsy nature. He had given himself until the next day and now refused to look beyond that. Every moment Sabine wasattracting him more deeply—and bringing certain memories more vividly before him with maddening tantalization.
But did she love Henry? Of that he could not be sure. If she did, he certainly must divorce her at once. If she did not—why was she wishing to marry him? Henry was an awfully good fellow, far better than he—but after all, she was his wife—even though he had forfeited all right to call her so, and if she did not love Henry, no friendship toward him ought to be allowed to stand in the way of their reunion. It is astonishing how civilization controls nature! If we put as much force into the controlling of our own thoughts as we put into acting up to a standard of public behavior, what wonderful creatures we should become!
Here were these two human beings—young and strong and full of passion, playing each a part with an art as great as any displayed at the Comédie Française! And all for reasons suggested by civilization!—when nature would have solved the difficulty in the twinkling of an eye!
Michael spent a breakfast hour in purgatory. It was plain to be seen that Henry expected him to show some desire to go fishing, or to want some other sport which required solitude, or only the company of Madame Imogen—and his afternoon looked as if it were not going to be a thing of joy. The result of civilization then made him say:
"May I take out that boat I saw in the little harbor after breakfast, Mrs. Howard? I must have some real exercise. Two days in a motor is too much."
And his hostess graciously accorded him a permission, while her heart sank—at least she experienced that unpleasant physical sensation of heaviness somewhere in the diaphragm which poets have christened heart-sinking! She knew it was quite the right thing for him to have done,—and yet she wished fervently that they could have spent another hour like the one in the turret summer-house.
Henry was radiant—and as Michael went off through the postern and down to the little harbor where the boats lay, he asked in fine language what were his beloved's wishes for the afternoon?
Sabine felt pettish, she wanted to snap out that she did not care a single sou what they did, but she controlled herself and answered sweetly that she would take him all over the château and ask his opinion and advice about some further improvements she meant to make.
They strolled first to the crenellated wall of the courtyard along which there was a high walk from which you looked down upon the boat-house and the little jetty—this wall made the fourth side of the courtyard, and with the gate tower, and the concierge's tower across the causeway, and part of the garden elevation, was the very oldest of the whole château, and dated from early feudal times.
They leaned upon the stone and looked down at the sea.
"There are only a very few days in the year that Minne-ha-ha ever comes out of her shed," Sabine told him, pointing to the boat-house. "You cannot imagine what the wind is here—even now it may get up in a few moments on this glassy sea, or thunder may come—and in the autumn the storms are too glorious. I sit at one of the big windows in my sitting-room and watch the waves for hours; they break on the rocks which stretch out from the tower, which is my bedroom on the Finisterre side, and they rise mountain-high; it is a most splendid sight. We are, as it were, in the midst of a cauldron of boiling foam. It exalts and vitalizes me more than I can tell you. I wish it had been the autumn now."
"I don't," he said. "I much prefer the summer and peace. I want to take away all that desire for fierce things, dearest—they were the echoes of those dark thoughts and shadows which used to be in your eyes at Carlsbad."
"Ah, if you could!" she sighed.
It was the first time he had ever seen her moved—and it distressed him.
"Do you not think that I can, then?" he asked, tenderly. "It is the only thing I really want in life—to make you happy."
"How good you are, Henry!" she cried; "so noble and unselfish and true; you frighten me. I am just acreature of earth—full of things you may not like when you know me better. I am sure I think of myself more than any one else—you make me—ashamed."
He took her hand and kissed it, while his fine gray eyes melted in worship.
"I will not even listen when you say such things—for me you are perfect—a pearl of great price."
"I must try to be, but I am not," and her voice trembled a little. "I believe I am as full of faults and life as your friend there—Mr. Arranstoun, who I am sure is just a selfish, reckless man!"
Michael at this moment reached the boat-house with old Berthe's son, who began to help him to untie the one he wanted. He looked the most splendid creature there in his white flannels—and he turned and waved to them and then got in and pulled out a few yards with long, easy strokes.
"Michael is a character," his friend said. "He has been spoilt all his life by women—and fortune. He has a most strange story. He married a girl about five years ago just to make himself safe from another woman whom he had been making love to. I was awfully angry with him at the time—I was staying in the house and I refused to wait for the wedding. I thought it such a shame to the girl, although it was merely an empty ceremony—but she was awfully young, I believe."
"How interesting!" and Sabine's voice was strained. "You saw the girl—what was she like?"
"No, I never saw her—it was all settled one afternoon when I was out—and I thought it such a thundering shame that I left that same night."
"And if you had stayed—you would have met her—how curious fate is sometimes—isn't it? Perhaps you could have prevented your friend being so foolish—if you had stayed."
"No, nothing in the world would ever prevent Michael from doing what he wanted to—it is in the blood of all those old border families—heredity again—they flourished by imposing their wills recklessly and snatching and fighting, and who ever survived was a strong man. It has come down to them in force and vigor and daring unto this day."
"But what happened about the marriage?" Sabine asked. "It interests me so much; it sounds so romantic at this matter-of-fact time."
"Nothing happened, except that they went through the ceremony and the girl left at once that same night, I believe, and Michael has never seen or heard of her since—he tells me the time is up now when he can divorce her for desertion, according to Scotch law—and I fancy he will. It is a ridiculous position for them both. He does not even know if she has not preferred some one else by now."
"Surely she would have given some sign if she had—but perhaps he does not care."
"Not much. I fancy he amused himself a good dealat Ostende—" and Henry smiled. "He has been away in the wilds for five years and naturally has come back full of zest for civilization."
Sabine's full lips curled, and she looked at the sea again, and the figure in the boat rapidly pulling away from the shore.
"If he chose to leave her alone all these years, he could not expect anything else, could he, than that she would have grown to care for another man."
"No, that is what I told him—and he said he was a dog in the manger."
"He did not want her himself, and yet did not wish to give her to any one else—how disgustingly selfish!"
"Men are proverbially selfish," and Henry smiled again; "it is the nature of the creatures."
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 theaffaire! 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 everknew 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.
Sabine—overcome by Lord Fordyce's goodness, had let him hold her arm while her head was perilously nearto his shoulder. It all looked very intimate and lover-like when seen from afar. The greatest pain Michael Arranstoun had ever experienced came into his heart, and without waiting a second he turned on his heel and went back to the house. Here he had a bath and changed his clothes, while his servant packed, and then, with the help of Madame Imogen, he looked up a train. Yes, there was a fast one which went to Paris from their nearest little town—he could just catch it by ordering Henry's motor—this he promptly did—and leaving the best excuses he could invent with Madame Imogen, he got in and departed a few minutes before his hostess and Lord Fordyce came back to tea at five.
He had written a short note to Sabine—which Nicholas handed to her.
She opened it with trembling fingers; this was all it was:
I understand—and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more—perhaps I can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn.Michael Arranstoun.
I understand—and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more—perhaps I can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn.
Michael Arranstoun.
It was as well that Lord Fordyce had gone up to his room—for the lady of Héronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the note in her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her great sitting-room.
So he had gone then—and they could have no explanation. But he had come out of the manger—and was going to let the other animal eat the hay.
This, however, was very poor comfort and brought no consolation on its wings. Civilization again won the game.
For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's voluble description of Michael's leaving—pressing business which he had mistaken the date about—finally she had to pour out tea and smile happily at Henry and Père Anselme.
But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the window seat and shook all over with sobs.
Michael's note to Henry was characteristic:
I'm bored, my dear Henry—the picture of your bliss is not inspiriting—so I am off to Paris and thence home. I hope you'll think I behaved all right and played the game.Took your motor to catch train.Yrs.,M. A.
I'm bored, my dear Henry—the picture of your bliss is not inspiriting—so I am off to Paris and thence home. I hope you'll think I behaved all right and played the game.
Took your motor to catch train.
Yrs.,
M. A.
ThePère Anselme was uneasy. Very little escaped his observation, and he saw at tea that his much loved Dame d'Héronac was not herself. She had not been herself the night before at dinner either—there was more in the coming of these two Englishmen than met the eye. He had seen her with Michael in the morning in the summer-house from a corner of the garden, too, where he was having a heated argument with the gardener in chief, as well as when he met them on the causeway bridge. He felt it his duty to do something to smooth matters, but what he could not decide. Perhaps she would tell him about it on the morrow, when he met her as was his custom on days that were not saints' days interfered with by mass.
"I shall be at the gate at nine o'clock,ma fille," he said, when he wished her good-day. "With your permission, we must decide about the clematis trellis for the north wall without delay."
Henry accompanied the old man on his walk back to the village—and they conversed in cultivated andstilted French of philosophy and of Breton fisher-folk, and of the strange, melancholy type they seemed to have.
"They look ever out to sea," the priest said; "they are watching the deep waters and are conscious forever of their own and loved ones' dangers—they arede braves gens."
"It seems so wonderful that anything so young and full of life as Mrs. Howard should have been drawn to live in such an isolated place, does it not,mon père?" Henry asked. "It seems incongruous."
"When she came first she was very sad. She had cause for much sorrow, the dear child—and the sea was her mate; together she and I, with the sea, have studied many things. She deserves happiness, Monsieur, her soul is as pure and as generous as an angel's—if Monsieur knew what she does for my poor people and for all who come under her care!"
"It will be the endeavor of my life to make her happy, Father," and Lord Fordyce's voice was full of feeling.
"Happiness can only be secured in two ways, my son. Either it comes in the guise of peace, after the flames have burnt themselves out—or it comes through fusion of love at fever heat——"
"Yes?" Henry faltered, rather anxiously.
"When there are still some cinders alight—the peaceful happiness is not quite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with some risks."
"What makes you say this to me?"
The old priest did not look at him, but continued to gaze ahead.
"I have the welfare of our Dame d'Héronac very strongly at heart, Monsieur, as you can guess, and I am not altogether sure that the cinders are not still red. It would be well for you to ascertain whether this be so or not before you ask her to make fresh bonds."
"You think she still cares for her husband, then?" Henry was very pale.
"I do not know that she ever cared—but I do know that even his memory has power to disturb her. He must have been just such another as your friend, the Seigneur of Arranstoun. It is his presence which has reminded her of something of the past, since it cannot be he himself."
"No, of course it cannot be Michael—" and Henry laughed shortly. "He is an Englishman. She had never seen him before yesterday—You think she seems disturbed?"
"Yes."
"What would you have me do, then, Father? I love this woman more than my life and only desire her happiness."
The Curé of Héronac shrugged his high shoulders slightly.
"It is not for me to give advice to a man of the world—but had it been in the days when I was Gaston d'Héronac, of the Imperial Guard, I should have told you—Use your intelligence, search, investigate for yourself. Make her love you—leave nothing vague or to chance. As a priest, I must say that I find all divorces wrong—and that for me she should remain the wife of the other man."
"Even when the man is a drunkard or a lunatic, and there have been no children?" Henry demanded.
A strange look came in the old Curé's eye as he glanced at his companion covertly, and for a second it seemed as though he meant to speak his thought—but the only words which came were in Latin:
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," and then he held out his thin, brown hand; they had reached his door.
"In all cases you have my good wishes, my son, for you seem worthy of her—my good wishes and my prayers."
Lord Fordyce mounted the stairs to his lady's sitting-room with lagging steps. The Père Anselme's advice had caused him to think deeply, and it was necessary that he had speech with Sabine, if she would let him come back into her sitting-room. He knocked at the door softly, as was his way, and when her voice said "Entrez" rather impatiently he did enter and advance with diffidence. She was sitting with her back tothe light in one of the great window embrasures, so that he could not see the expression upon her face—and her tone became gentle as she welcomed him.
"The evening is so glorious, come and watch the sunset; but there is a little look of thunder there in the far west—to-morrow we may have a storm."
Henry sat down beside her on the orange velvet seat—and his eyes, full of love and tenderness, sought her face beseechingly.
"I shall simply hate going the day after to-morrow, dearest," he said. "If it were not for the sternest duty to my mother, I would ask you to keep me until Friday—it will be such pain to tear myself away."
"You have been dear," she answered very low. "You have shown me what real love in a man means—what tenderness and courtesy can make of life. Henry—however wayward I may be, you will bear with me, will you not? I want to be good and happy—" Her sweet voice, with its faintly French accent, was full of pathos as a child's might be who is asking for comfort and sympathy for some threatened hurt. "Oh! I want to be in the sure shelter of your love always, so that storms like that one coming up over there cannot touch me. I want you to make me forget—everything."
He was so deeply moved, tears sprang to his eyes—as he bent and kissed her hands with reverence.
"My darling—you shall indeed be worshipped and protected and kept from all clouds—only first tell me,Sabine, straight from your heart, do you really and truly desire to marry me? I do not ask you to tell me that you love me yet, because I know that you do not—but I want to know the truth. If you have a single doubt whether it is for your happiness, tell it to me—let there be no uncertainties between us—my dear love——"
She was silent for a moment, while his tenderness seemed to be pouring balm upon her troubled spirit.
"My God!" he cried, fearing her silence. "Sabine, speak to me—I will not hold you for a second if you would rather be free—if you think I cannot chase all sad memories away."
She put out her hand and touched his arm.
"If you will be content to take me, knowing that I have things to forget—and if you will help me to forget them, then I know that I want to marry you, Henry—just as to-night perhaps that little sail we see out there will long to get in to a safe port."
He gave her his promise—with passionately loving words, that he would protect and adore her always, and soothe and cherish her until all haunting memories were gone.
And for the first time since they had known one another, Sabine let him fold her in his arms.
But the lips which he pressed so fondly were cold, like death—and afterwards she went quickly to her room.
The die was irrevocably cast—she could never go back now; she was as firmly bound to Henry as if she had been already his wife.
For her nature was tender and honest and true—and Lord Fordyce had touched the highest chord in it, the chord of her soul.
But, as she stood looking from the narrow, deep casement up at the evening sky, suddenly, with terrible vividness, there came back to her mental vision the chapel at Arranstoun upon her wedding night, with its gorgeous splendors and the candles and the lilies and their strong scent, and it was as if she could feel Michael's kiss when the old clergyman's words were done.
She started forward with a little moan, and put her hands over her eyes. Then her will reasserted itself, and her firm lips closed tight.
Nothing should make her waver or alter her mind now—and these phantasies should be ruthlessly stamped out.
She sat down in an armchair, and forced herself to picture her life with Henry. It would be full of such great and interesting things, and he would be there to guide and protect her always and keep her from all regrets.
So presently she grew calm and comforted, and by the time she was dressed for dinner, she was even bright and gay, and made a most sweet and gracious mistressof Héronac and of the heart of Henry Fordyce. Just as they were leaving the dining-room, Nicholas brought her a message from Père Anselme, to the effect that a very bad storm was coming up, and she must be sure to have the great iron shutters inside the lower dungeon windows securely closed. He had already told Berthe's son to take in the little boat.
And as they crossed the connecting passage, Madame Imogen gave a scream, for a vivid flash of lightning came in through the open windows—followed by a terrific crash of thunder, and when they reached the sitting-room the storm had indeed come.
It was past midnight when Michael reached Paris, and, going in to the Ritz, met Miss Daisy Van der Horn and a number of other friends just leaving after a merry dinner in a private room. They greeted him with fervor. Where had he been? And would not he dress quickly and come on to supper with them?
"Why, you look as glum as an owl, Michael Arranstoun!" Miss Van der Horn herself informed him. "Just you hustle and put on your evening things, and we'll make you feel a new man."
And with the most supreme insolence, before them all he bent down and kissed both her hands—while his blue eyes blazed with devilment as he answered:
"I will join you in half an hour—but if you pull me out of bed like this, you will have to make a night of it with me. You shan't go home at all!"
Awholemonth went by, and after the storm peace seemed to cover Héronac. Sabine gardened with Père Anselme, and listened to his kindly, shrewd common sense, and then they read poetry in the afternoons when tea was over. They read Béranger, François Villon, Victor Hugo, and every now and then they even dashed into de Musset!
The good Father felt more easy in his mind. After all, his impressions of Lord Fordyce's character had been very high, and he was not apt to make mistakes in people—perhaps le bon Dieu meant to make an exception in favor of the beloved Dame d'Héronac, and to find divorce a good thing! Sabine had heard from Mr. Parsons that the negotiations had commenced. It would be some time, though, before she could be free. She must formally refuse to return when the demand asking her to do so should come. This she was prepared to carry out. She firmly and determinedly banished all thought of Michael from her mind, and hardly ever went into the garden summer-house—because, when she did, she saw him too plainly standing there in his whiteflannels, with the sprig of her lavender in his coat and his bold blue eyes looking up at her with their horribly powerful charm. The force of will can do such wonders that, as the days went on, the pain and unrest of her hours lessened in a great degree.
Every morning there came an adoring letter from Henry, in which he never said too much or too little, but everything that could excite her cultivated intelligence and refresh her soul. In all the after years of her life, whatever might befall her, these letters of Henry's would have a lasting influence upon her. They polished and moulded her taste; and put her on her mettle to answer them, and gradually they grew to be an absorbing interest. He selected the books she was to read, and sent her boxes of them. It had been agreed before he left that he would not return to Héronac for some time; but that in late October, when the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater got back to Paris, that if they could be persuaded to come to London, Sabine would accompany them, and make the acquaintance of Henry's mother and some of his family—who would be in ignorance of there being any tie between them, and the whole thing could be done casually and with good sense.
"I want my mother and my sisters to love you, darling," Henry wrote, "without a prejudiced eye. My mother would find you perfect, whatever you were like, if she knew that you were my choice—and for the samereason my sisters would perhaps find fault with you; so I want you to make their conquest without any handicap."
Sabine, writing one of her long letters to Moravia in Italy, said: