I am very happy, Morri. This calm Englishman is teaching me such a number of new aspects of life, and making me more determined than ever to be a very great lady in the future. We are so clever in our nation, and all the young vitality in us is so splendid, when it is directed and does not turn to nerves and fads. I am growing so muchfiner, my dear, under his guidance. You will know me when we meet—because each day I grow more to understand.
The Père Anselme had only one moment of doubt again, just the last morning before his Dame d'Héronac left for Paris when October had come. It was raining hard, and he found her in the great sitting-room with a legal-looking document in her hand. Her face was very pale, and lying on the writing-table beside her was an envelope directed and stamped.
It contained her refusal to return to her husband signed and sealed.
The old priest did not ask her any questions; he guessed, and sympathized.
But his lady was too restless to begin their reading, and stole from window to window looking out on the gray sea.
"I shall come here for six months in the year just as always, Father," she said at last. "I can never sever myself from Héronac."
"God forbid," exclaimed the priest, aghast. "If you left us, the sun no more would seem to shine."
"And sometimes I will come—alone—because there will be times, my Father, when I shall want to fight things out—alone."
The Père Anselme took some steps nearer her, and after a moment said, in a grave voice:
"Remember always, my daughter, that le bon Dieu settles things for us mortals if we leave it all to Him—but if we take the helm in the direction of our own affairs, it may be He will let circumstance draw us into rough waters. In that case, the only thing for us is to be true to our word and to our own souls—and to use common sense."
Sabine looked at him with somber, startled eyes.
"You mean, that I decided to help myself, Father—about the divorce—and that now I must look only to myself—It is a terrible thought."
"You are strong, my child; it may be that you were directed from above, I cannot say," and he shrugged his shoulders gently. "Only that the good God is always merciful. What you must be is true to yourself.Pax vobiscum," and he placed his hand upon her head.
But, for once, Sabine lost control of her emotionsand, bursting into a passion of tears, she rushed from the room.
"Alas! all is well?" said the priest, half aloud, and then he knelt by the window and prayed fervently—without telling his beads.
But, at breakfast, Sabine's eyes were dry again, and she seemed quite calm. She, too, had held communion with herself, and her will had once more resumed the mastery. This should be the last exhibition of weakness—and the last feeling of weakness; and as she would suppress the outward signs, so she would crush the inner emotion. All life looked smiling. She was young, healthy and rich. She had inspired the devoted love of a good and great man, whose position would give scope for her ambitions, whose intellect was a source of pleasure and joy to her, and whose tenderness would smooth all her path. What right had she to have even a crumpled rose leaf! None in the world.
She must get accustomed even to hearing of Michael, and perhaps to meeting him again face to face, since Henry was never to know—or, at least, not for years perhaps, when she had been so long happily married that the knowledge would create no jar. And at all events, he need not know—of the afterwards—that should remain forever locked in her heart. Then she resolutely turned to lighter thoughts—her clothes in Paris, the pleasure to see Moravia again—the excitement of her trip to London, where she had never been, except to pass through that once long ago.
The Père Anselme came to the station with her, and as he closed the door of the reserved carriage she was in, he said:
"Blessings be upon your head, my child. And, whatever comes, may the good God direct you into peace."
Then he turned upon his heel, his black eyes dim—for the autumn months would be long with only Madame Imogen for companion, beside his flock—and the sea.
Michael had got back from Paris utterly disgusted with life, sick with himself. Bitterly resentful against fate for creating such a tangled skein, and dangling happiness in front of him only to snatch it away again. He went up to Arranstoun and tried to play his part in the rejoicings at his return. He opened the house, engaged a full staff of servants, and filled it with guests. He shot with frantic eagerness for one week, and then with indifference the next. Whatever he may have done wrong in his life, his punishment had come. He had naturally an iron will, and when he began to use it to calm his emotions, a better state of things might set in, but for the time being he was just drifting, and sorrow was his friend.
His suite at Arranstoun—which he had never seen since the day after his wedding, having gone up to London that very next night, and from there made all his arrangements for the China trip—gave him a shock—he who had nerves of steel—and into the chapel he loathed to go. His one consolation was that Binko, now seven years old, had not transferred his affection to Alexander Armstrong, with whom he had spent the time; but after an hour or two had rapturously appeared to remember his master, and now never, if he could help it, left his side.
Michael took to reading books—no habit of his youth!—although his shrewd mind had not left him in the usual plight of blank ignorance, which is often the portion of a splendid, young athlete leaving Eton! But now he studied subjects seriously, and the whys and wherefores of things; and he grew rather to enjoy the evenings alone, between the goings and comings of his parties, when, buried in a huge chair before his log fire, with only Binko's snorts for company, he could pore over some volume of interest. He studied his family records, too, getting all sorts of interesting documents out of his muniment room.
What a fierce, brutal lot they had always been! No wonder the chapel had to be so gloriously filled—and then there came to his memory the one little window which was still plain, and how he had told Sabine that he supposed it had been left for him to garnish—as an expiatory offering—the race being so full of rapine and sin!
Should he put the gorgeous glass in now—it was time. But a glass window could not prevent the punishment—since it had already fallen upon him, nor even alleviate the suffering.
He was staring straight in front of him at the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots', landing—it had been painted at about 1850, when romantic subjects of that sort were in vogue, and "the fellow in the blue doublet" was said, by the artist, to represent the celebrated Arranstoun of that time. The one who had killed a Moreton and stolen his wife. No doubt that is why his grandfather had bought it. He thought it looked very well over the secret door, and then he deliberately let himself picture how it had once fallen forward, and all the circumstances which had followed in consequence. He reconstructed every word he could remember of his and Sabine's conversation that afternoon. He repictured her innocent baby face—and from there on to the night of the wedding. He reviewed all his emotions in the chapel, and the strange exaltation which was upon him then—and the mad fire which awoke in his blood with his first kiss or of her fresh young lips when the vows were said. Every minute incident was burned into his memory until the cutting of the cake—after that it seemed to be a chaos of wild passion, and moments of extraordinary bliss. He suddenly could almost see her little head there unresisting on his breast, all tears and terror at last hushed to rest by his fondcaresses—and then he started from his seat—the memory was too terribly sweet.
He had, of course, been the most frightful brute. Nothing could alter or redeem that fact; but when sleep came to them at length he had believed that he had made her forgive him, and that he could teach her to love him and have no regrets. Then the agony to wake and find her gone!
What made her go after all? How had she slipped from his arms without awakening him? If he had only heard her when she was stealing from the room, he could have reasoned with her, and even have again caught her and kissed her into obedience—but he had slept on.
He remembered all his emotions—rage at her daring to cross his will to begin with, and then the deep wound to his self-love. That is what had made him write the hard letter which forever put an end to their reunion.
"What a paltry, miserable, arrogant wretch I was then," he thought—"and how pitifully uncontrolled."
But all was now too late.
The next morning's post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, in which he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he had returned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied. The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness. He was utterly absorbed in his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed so peaceful andjoyous, it was evident she must reciprocate. Well, Henry was worthy of her—but this in no way healed the hurt. Michael violently tore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in him again. He wanted to slay something; he almost wished his friend had been an enemy that he could have gone out and fought with him and reseized his bride. What matter that she should be unwilling—the Arranstoun brides had often been unwilling. She had been unwilling before, and he had crushed her resistance, and even made her eventually show him some acquiescence and content. He could certainly do it again, and with more chance of success, since she was a woman now and not a child, and would better understand emotions of love.
He stood there shaking with passion. What should he do? What step should he take? Then Binko, who had emerged from his basket, gave a tiny half-bark—he wanted to express his sympathy and excitement. If his beloved master was transported with rage, it was evidently the moment for him to show some feeling also, and to go and seize by the throat man or beast who had caused this tumult.
His round, faithful, adoring eyes were upturned, and every fat wrinkle quivered with love and readiness to obey the smallest command, while he snorted and slobbered with emotion. Something about him touched Michael, and made him stoop and seize him in his armsand roll the solid mass on the bed in rough, loving appreciation.
"You understand, old man!" he cried fondly. "You'd go for Henry or anyone—or hold her for me"—And then the passion died out of him, as the dog licked his hand. "But we have been brutes once too often, Binko, and now we'll have to pay the price. She belongs to Henry, who's behaved like a gentleman—not to us any more."
So he rang for his valet and went to his bath quietly, and thus ended the storm of that day.
And Henry Fordyce in London was awaiting the arrival of his well-beloved, who, with the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater, was due to be at the Ritz Hotel that evening, when they would dine all together and spend a time of delight.
And far away in Brittany, the Père Anselme read in his book of meditations:
It is when the sky is clearest that the heaviest bolt falls—it would be well for all good Christians to be on the alert.
And chancing to look from his cottage window, he perceived that a heavy rain cloud had gathered over the Château of Héronac.
Inthe morning before they left Héronac, Sabine's elderly maid, Simone, came to her with the face she always wore when her speech might contain any reference to the past. She had been with Sabine ever since the week after her marriage, and was a widow and a Parisian, with a kind and motherly heart.
"Will madame take the blue despatch-box with her as usual?" she asked.
Sabine hesitated for a second. She had never gone anywhere without it in all those five years—but now everything was changed. It might be wiser to leave it safely at Héronac. Then her eyes fell upon it, and a slight shudder came over her of the kind which people describe as "a goose walking over your grave."
No, she could not leave it behind.
"I will take it, Simone."
"As madame wishes," and the maid went on her way.
When Sabine had reached London late on that evening in the June of 1907 on her leaving Scotland shefound, in response to the wire she had sent him from Edinburgh, Mr. Parsons waiting for her at the station, his astonishment as great as his perturbation.
Her words had been few; her young mind had been firmly made up in the train coming south. No one should ever know that there had been any deviation from the original plan she had laid out for herself. With a force of will marvellous in one of her tender years, she had controlled her extreme emotion, and except that she looked very pale and seemed very determined and quiet, there were no traces of the furnace through which she had passed, in which had perished all her old conceptions of existence, although as yet she realized nothing but that she wanted to go away and to be free and forget her tremors, and presently join Moravia.
The marriage had been perfectly legal, as the certificate showed, and Mr. Parsons, whatever his personal feelings about the matter were, knew that he had not the smallest control over her—and was bound to hand over to her her money to do with as she pleased.
She merely told him the facts—that the marriage had been only an arrangement to this end—Mr. Arranstoun having agreed before the ceremony that this should be so—and that she wanted to engage a good maid and go over to Paris as soon as possible, to see her friend the Princess Torniloni.
She had decided in the train that her methods withall who opposed her must be as they used to be with Sister Jeanne—a statement of her intentions, and then silence and no explanations. Sister Jeanne had given up all argument with her in her last year at the convent!
Mr. Parsons soon found that his words were falling upon deaf ears, and were perfectly useless. She had cut herself adrift from her aunt and uncle, whom she cordially disliked, leaving them a letter to tell them that as she was now her own mistress, she never meant to trouble them or Mr. Greenbank again, and she bid them adieu!
"It is not as if they had ever been the least kind to me," she did condescend to inform the lawyer. "They couldn't bear me really—Samuel, although he was such a poor creature, was far the best of them. Uncle was only wanting my money for him, and Aunt Jemima detested me, and only had me with her because Papa left in his will that she had to, or lose his legacy. You can't think what I've learned of their meannesses in the month I've know them!"
Thus Mr. Parsons had no further arguments to use—and felt that after seeing her safe to his own hotel that night, and helping to engage a suitable and responsible maid next day to travel with her, he could do no more.
The question of the name troubled him most, and he almost refused to agree that she should be known as Mrs. Howard.
"But I have told Mr. Arranstoun that I mean to be only that!" Sabine exclaimed, "and he didn't mind, and"—here her violet eyes flashed—"Iwill notbe anything else—so there!"
Mr. Parsons shrugged his shoulders; she was impossible to deal with, and as he himself was obliged to return to America in the following week, he felt the only thing to do was to let her have her way. And so well did he guard his client's secret then and afterwards, that even Simone, though a shrewd Frenchwoman, had never known that her mistress' name was not really Howard. At the time of her being engaged she was just leaving an American lady from the far West whom Mr. Parsons knew of, and she was delighted to come as maid and almost chaperon to this sweet, but wilful young lady.
So they had gone to Paris together, to order clothes—such a joyous task—and to make herself forget those hours so terribly full of strange emotion was all which occupied Sabine's mind at this period. Other preoccupations came later; and it was then that she listened to Simone's suggestion of going to San Francisco. The maid knew it well, and there they spent several months in a quiet hotel. But they neither of them cared much to remember those days, and nothing would have ever induced Sabine to return thither.
She thought of these things now, as Simone left theroom with the blue case, but she put from her all disturbing remembrances on her journey to Paris, and rushed into Moravia's arms, who was waiting for her in her palatial apartment in the Avenue du Bois; they really loved one another, these two women, as few sisters do.
"Sabine, you darling!" the Princess cried, while Girolamo, kept up an hour later to welcome his god-mamma, screamed with joy.
"Now tell me everything, everything, pet!" Moravia demanded, as she poured out the tea. "Has the divorce been settled? How soon will you be free? When can you get married to this nice Englishman?"
"I don't exactly know, Morri—the law is such a strange thing; however, my—husband—has agreed and begun to take the necessary steps by requesting me to go back to him, which I have refused to do."
"You are looking perfectly splendid, dear. Having all that brain stimulation evidently suits you. Wasn't the visit of Lord Fordyce delightful in that romantic old castle? What did you do all the time? and what was the friend like?—you did not tell me."
Sabine stirred her tea.
"He only stayed one night—he was quite a nice creature—Mr. Arranstoun."
"Of the castle?" The Princess was thrilled. "Why, darling, he must be the one that they say is going to marry Daisy Van der Horn. He has got some matrimonial tangle like you have, and when he is through with it, Daisy is such dead nuts on him, they say she is certain to get him to marry her! Do tell me exactly what he is like—I am not over fond of Daisy, you know—but she is a splendid specimen of dash and vim."
"He is good-looking, Morri—and he has got 'it.'"
"I gathered that from all that I have heard of him here. Old Miss Buskin, Daisy's aunt, you remember the old horror, says he is 'just too sweet,' and 'that sassy'—you know her frightfully vulgar way of speaking!—that even she is 'afraid to be alone in the room with him!'"
"I dare say—he—looked like that—he ought to suit Daisy," and then Sabine felt she had been spiteful and tried to divert matters by asking where Mr. Cloudwater was.
"Papa will be in in a moment. He has been dying for you to come back." But the Princess had not done with Mr. Arranstoun yet. The Van der Horn coterie had rung with his exploits on her return from Italy, and the lurid picture had interested her deeply.
"I do wish I had been at Héronac, Sabine, I would love to have seen that young man. Daisy's aunt told me he was wild about her niece, and at one moment she thought everything was settled—it must have been after he came back from Brittany—and then he went off to England—probably he does not like to speak out until he is free."
Sabine felt that strange sensation she had experienced once before, of heart sinking—and then, furious with herself, she mastered it and became more determined than ever to carry out her intention of growing accustomed to hearing of, and talking about Michael calmly.
"You are sure to meet him in England," she said; "he is a great friend of Henry's."
But afterwards, when she was alone resting in her cosy room before dinner, she deliberately pulled the blue despatch-box toward her and looked at some of its contents, while tears gathered in her eyes, which even the cynical thoughts which she was calling to her aid could not quite suppress. Would things have been different if she had been able to send Michael the letter which she had written to him in the September of 1907? The letter she had asked Mr. Parsons, who was again in London, to have delivered to him, into his hand—and which came back to her in Paris with the information from the old lawyer that Mr. Arranstoun had left England for the wilds of China and Tibet, and might not get any letters for more than a year. She remembered how that night she had cried herself to sleep with misery, and with a growing regret at having left Michael, and a pitiful longing just to be clasped once more in his strong arms and comforted. Oh! the hateful wretched memories! To have gone off at once to China like that proved his callousness and indifference.Then, in spite of herself, her thoughts would review all he had said to her on that morning in the garden. No—there had not been one word of meaning, not even any suggestion of regret that she was practically engaged to Henry. There had been some faint allusion to people being fools—and brutes when young, but not that they would wish to repair the faults which they had committed then. The whole thing was plain—he had never really cared an atom for her. He had been only affected by passion, even on her wedding night when he was pouring love vows into her startled ears.
"He was probably horribly surprised to come upon me at Héronac," her thoughts now ran, "and then just sampled me—and went off as soon as he could—back to Daisy in Paris!"
Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears.
Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun. She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption in Henry, and her complete indifference to himself. His vanity would be wounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger. That would be her only revenge—and what a paltry one! She felt that—and was ashamed of herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love is wounded and the passion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabine was no better nor worse than any other woman probably. Once more she made resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael either good or bad. It was perfectly sickening—the humiliation and degradation of his so frequently coming into her mind. She pulled the despatch-box nearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope a brown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire.
"There! that is done with—ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!"
And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone and began to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks.
They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them at Charing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel.
How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked! He was as ever a soothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing in deciding to link her life with his.
But it was not so with Moravia. Lord Fordyce had attracted her from the moment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again had boiled up; and alas! Moravia—beautiful young widow and Princess—found herself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeply interested in the declared lover of her friend. Henry for her had every charm. He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with that well-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabine had always said irritated her so.
It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminine instinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all. If she had felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it was fate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actually to feel unhappy. They were continually surrounded with friends, and at every meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delight in. People were just beginning to come back to London, and they had amusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry's family, an intelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them. The Princess had very seldom been in London before—and quite understood that, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoilt all her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn's pet expressions, "terribly amused." Sabine, as the days wore on, and she was under Henry's influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grew happy, and heard Michael's name without a tremor.
For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much she would like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris.
"I had a letter from him this morning," Lord Fordyce said. "He is shooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Friday night. I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what you think of him. He really is a very charming fellow, for all his recklessness—and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you of him are overdrawn."
"Oh, I hope not!" Moravia laughed. "Do not disillusion me!"
Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who had wired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Friday and go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would find another occasion to present his friend.
To him, Henry, this week in late October had been one of almost unalloyed happiness—although he could have dispensed with the continuous parties; still, he felt the Princess had to be amused, and perhaps in a larger company he got more chance of speaking to his beloved alone.
The position of a man nearly always affects women—and the great and unmistakable prestige, which it was plain to be seen Henry possessed, had added to his charm in both Moravia and Sabine's eyes. It gratified Sabine's vanity. She knew this, she was quite cognizant of the fact that it pleased her. She felt glad and proud that she should occupy so exalted a place in the world's eyes, as she would do as his wife. Surely all the greatduties and interests of that position would make life very fair. It would be such peace and relief when the divorce proceedings would come on and be finished with—a much less tiresome affair in Scotland, she had heard, than in an English court.
When Michael Arranstoun got Henry's wire asking him to dine, he laughed bitterly. There was something so cynically entertaining in the idea of the whole situation! He was being asked out to meet the wife whom he was madly in love with, and was preparing to divorce for desertion, so that she might marry the giver of the invitation!
He was tempted to accept for a second or two, the desire to see her again was growing almost more than he could bear; but at this period he had still strength to refuse—and then, as the days went on, it seemed that nothing gave him any pleasure, and that constantly and incessantly his thoughts turned to one subject. If there had been no friendship or honor mixed up in the thing, nothing would have been simpler than to sit down and write to Henry telling him plainly that Sabine was his wife—and that she must choose between them. But then he remembered that, apart from all friendship, Sabine had already plainly expressed her choice, and that he had absolutely no right to hold her in any way since he had given her permission all those years ago to make what she chose of her life. He had not yet instructed his lawyers to begin actual proceedings—hewas in a furnace of indecision and unrest. He would like just somehow to get Sabine to Arranstoun first—then, if after that she still plainly showed that she loved Henry, he would make himself go ahead with the freedom scheme; but if he commenced actual proceedings now, by no possibility could she come to Arranstoun—and this idea—to get her to Arranstoun, began to be an obsession. Just in proportion as his nature was wild and rebellious, so the mad longing grew and grew in him to induce her to come once more into his house.
And it would seem that fate at first intended to assist him in this, for on the second of November the party went up North to stay with Rose Forster, Henry's sister, at Ebbsworth for a great ball she was giving for a newly married niece.
Fora day or two, Michael Arranstoun could not make up his mind, when he heard of the Ebbsworth ball, as to whether or no he ought to go to it. He had several conversations with Binko upon the subject, and finally came to the conclusion that he would go. He had grown so desperately unhappy by this time, that he cared no more whether it were right or wrong—he must see Sabine. He had not believed that it could be possible for him to suffer to such a degree about a woman. Hemustsatisfy himself absolutely as to the fact of her loving Henry.
Rose Forster had written, of course, to ask him to stay in the house for it—holding out the bait that she had two absolutely charming Americans coming. So Michael fell—and accepted, not without excusing himself to Binko as he finished writing out his wire:
Thousand thanks. I will come.
"I am a coward, Binko—I ought to have the pluck to go off to Timbuctoo and let Henry have a fair field—but I haven't and must be certain first."
They were all at tea in the library at Ebbsworth when he arrived, having motored over from Arranstoun after lunch.
Everyone was enchanted to see him, and greeted him with delight. He knew almost the whole twenty of them, most of whom were old friends.
The hostess took him over to the tea table, and sitting near it in a ravishing tea-gown was Moravia. Rose Forster introduced him casually, while she poured him out some tea.
The library was a big room with one or two tall screens, and from behind the furthest one there came a low, rippling laugh. The sound of it maddened Michael, and his bold blue eyes blazed as he began to talk to the Princess. His naturally easy manners made him able to carry on some kind of a conversation, but his whole attention was fixed upon the whereabouts of Sabine. She was with Henry, of course, behind that Spanish leather screen. He hardly even noticed that Moravia was a very pretty woman, most wonderfully dressed; but he felt she was a powerful unit in his game of getting Sabine to Arranstoun, and so he endeavored to make himself agreeable to her.
Presently, in the general move, Lord Fordyce and his lady love emerged with two other people they had been talking to, and Henry came up to Michael with outstretched hand.
He was awfully glad to see him, he said. Then this estranged husband and wife were face to face.
It was a wonderful moment for both of them, and with all the schooling that each one had been through, it was extremely difficult to behave naturally. Michael did not fight with himself, except to keep from all outward expression; he knew he was simply overcome with emotion; but Sabine continued to throw dust in her own eyes. The sudden wild beating of her heart she put down to every other reason but the true one. It was most wrong of Michael to have come to this party; but it was, of course, done out of bravado to show her that she did not matter to him at all—so with supreme sangfroid she greeted him casually, and then turned eyes of tenderness to Henry.
"You were going to show me the miniatures in the next room, Lord Fordyce—were you not?" she said, sweetly, and took a step on toward the door, leaving Michael with pain and rage for company.
She had never allowed Henry to kiss her since that one occasion at Héronac. It was not as it should be, she affirmed—until she were free and really engaged to him, she prayed him to behave always only as a friend. Lord Fordyce acquiesced, as he would have done to any penance she chose to impose upon him, and in his secret thoughts rather respected her for her decision; he was then more than delighted when she put her slender hand upon his arm with possessive familiarity as soon as they had reached the anteroom where the collection of miniatures were kept; but he did not know that she was aware that Michael stood where he could see them through the archway.
"My darling!" and he lifted the white fingers to his lips. Sabine had particularly beautiful hands, and they were his delight. She never wore any rings—only her wedding-ring and the one great pearl Henry had persuaded her to let him give her, but this was on her right hand.
"It would mean nothing for me to have it on the left one—while that bar of gold is there," she had told him. "I will only take it if you let me have it as a gage of friendship," and as ever he agreed. He was so passionately in love with her, there was nothing in the world he would not have done or left undone to please her. His eye followed her always with rapture, and her slightest wish was instantly obeyed. Sabine was naturally an autocrat, and, but for the great generosity of her spirit, might have made him suffer considerably, but she did not, being consistently gentle and sweet.
"My darling!" Henry repeated, in the little anteroom, while his fond eyes devoured her face. "Sometimes I love you so it frightens me—My God, if anything were to take you from me now, I do not think I could bear it."
Sabine shivered as she bent down to look at a case of Cosways in a show table.
"Nothing can take you from me, Henry—unless something goes wrong about the divorce. My lawyer arrives in England to-day from America on purpose to consult me and see what can be done to hasten matters. My—husband—has not as yet started the proceedings it seems."
Lord Fordyce's face paled.
"Does that mean anything sinister, dearest?" he demanded, with a quiver in his cultivated voice. "Sabine, you would tell me, would you not, if there were anything to fear?"
"I do not myself know what it means—I may have some news to-morrow—let us forget about it to-night. Oh! I want to be happy just for to-night, Henry!" and she held out her hand again pleadingly.
"Indeed, you shall be, darling," and splendid and unselfish gentleman that he was, he crushed down his anguish, and used all his clever brain to divert and entertain her, and presently all the women went up to dress for dinner and the ball, and Lord Fordyce found Michael in the smoking-room. He had really a deep affection for him; he had known him ever since he was an absolutely fearless, dare-devil little boy, the joy and pride of his father, Henry's old friend, and in spite of the full ten years' difference in their ages, they had ever been closest allies until their break at Arranstoun, and then Michael's five years abroad had made a gap, bridged over now since his return. Lord Fordyce felt that Michael's intense vitality and radiating magnetism would be refreshing in the depressed state into which his lady love's words had thrown him, and he drew him over with him, and they sat down in two big chairs apart from the rest of the festive groups—some playing bridge or billiards. Michael was in no gentle temper, and Henry was the last person he wished to talk to. He knew he ought not to have come, he knew that he ought to tell Henry straight out and then go off before the ball. He felt he was behaving like the most despicable coward; and yet, if it were possible for Henry never to know that he, Michael, was Sabine's husband, it would save his friend much pain. He was smarting under Sabine's insolent dismissal of him, and burning with jealousy over that witnessed caress, the violent passions of his race were surging up and causing a devil of recklessness to show in his very handsome face. Lord Fordyce saw that something had disturbed him.
"What's up, Michael, old boy?" he asked. "I haven't seen you look so like Black James since you got Violet Hatfield's letter and did not see how you could get out of marrying her."
Black James was a famous Arranstoun of the Court of James IV of Scotland, whose exploits had been the terror and admiration of the whole country, and who was even yet a byword for recklessness and savagery.
Michael laughed.
"Poor old Violet!" he said. "She will soon be bringing out her daughter. I saw her the other day in London; she cut me dead!"
"That was an escape!" and Henry lit a cigar. "However, as you know, a year after weeping crocodile tears for poor Maurice, she married young Layard of Balmayn. So all's well that ends well. She and Rose have never spoken since the scene when Violet read in theScotsmanthat you had got married!"
"Don't let's talk of it!" returned Mr. Arranstoun. "The whole thought of marriage and matrimony makes me sick!"
"Are you in some fresh scrape?" Henry exclaimed.
Michael put his head down doggedly, while his eyes flashed and he bit off the end of his cigar.
"Yes, the very devil of a hole—but this time no one can help me with advice or even sympathy; I must get out of the tangle myself."
"I am awfully sorry, old man."
"It is my own fault, that is what hurts the most."
"I do not feel particularly brilliant to-night either," Henry announced. "The divorce proceedings have not apparently been commenced in America—and nothing definite can be settled. I do not understand it quite. I always thought that out there the woman could always get matters manipulated for her, and get rid of the man when she wanted. They are so very chivalrous to women, American men, whatever may betheir other sins. This one must be an absolute swine."
"Yes—does Mrs. Howard feel it very much?" and Michael's deep voice vibrated strangely.
"She spoke of it just now. Her lawyer arrives from New York to-day to consult with her what is best next to be done."
"And she never told you a thing about the fellow, Henry? How very strange of her, isn't it?"
Lord Fordyce's fine, gray eyes gleamed.
"Ah—Michael, if you had ever loved a woman, you would know that when you really do, you desire to trust her to the uttermost. Sabine would tell me and offered to at once if I wished, but—it all upsets her so—I agree with her—it is much happier for both of us not to talk about it. Only if there seems to be some hitch I will get her to tell me, so that I may be able to help her. I have a fairly clear judgment generally—and may see some points she and Mr. Parsons have neglected."
Michael gazed into the fire—at this moment his worst enemy might have pitied him.
"Supposing anything were to go really wrong, Henry, it would cut you up awfully, eh?"
And if Lord Fordyce had not been so preoccupied with his own emotions, he would have seen an over-anxiety on the face of his friend.
"I believe it would just end my life, Michael," heanswered, very low. "I am not a boy, you know, to get over it and begin again."
Mr. Arranstoun bounded from his chair.
"Nothing must be allowed to go wrong, then, old man," he exclaimed almost fiercely. "Don't you fret. But, by Jove, we will be late for dinner!" and afraid to trust himself to say another word, he turned to one of the groups near and at last got from the room. He did not go up to his own, but on into the front hall, and so out into the night. A brisk wind was blowing, and the moon, a young, frosty moon was bright. He knew the place well, and paced a stone terrace undisturbed. It was on the other side all was noise and bustle, where the large, built out ball-room stood.
An absolute decision must be come to. No more shilly-shallying—he had thrown the dice and lost and must pay the stakes. He would ask her to dance this night and then get speech with her alone—discuss what would be best to do to save Henry, and then on the morrow go and begin proceedings immediately.
Meanwhile, up in Moravia's room, Sabine was seated upon the white sheep's-skin rug before the fire; she was wildly excited and extremely unhappy.
The sight of Michael again had upset all her fancied indifference, and shaken her poise; and apart from this, the situation was grotesque and unseemly. She could no longer suffer it: she would tell Henry the whole truth to-morrow and ask him what she must do. Hislove almost terrified her. What awful responsibility lay in her hand? But civilization commanded her to dress in her best, and go down and dance gaily and play her part in the world.
"Oh! what slaves we are, Morri!" she exclaimed, as though speaking her thoughts aloud, for the remark had nothing to do with what the Princess had said.
Moravia, who was lying on the sofa not in the best of moods either, answered gloomily:
"Yes, slaves—or savages. The truth is, we are nearly all animals more or less. Some are caught by wiles, and some are trapped, and some revel in being captured—and a few—a few are like me—they get away as a bird with a shot in its wing."
Sabine was startled—what was agitating her friend?
"But your troubles are over, Morri, darling—your wings are strong and free!"
"I said there was a shot in one of them."
Sabine came and sat upon a stool beside her, and took and caressed her hand.
"Something has hurt you, dearest," she cooed, rubbing Moravia's arm with her velvet cheek. "What is it?"
"No, I am not hurt—I am only cynical. I despise our sex—most of us are just primitive savages underneath at one time of our lives or another—we adore the strong man who captures us in spite of all our struggles!"
"Morri!"
"It is perfectly true! we all pass through it. In the beginning, when Girolamo devoured me with kisses and raged with jealousy, and one day almost beat me, I absolutely worshipped him; it was when he became polite—and then yawned that my misery began. You will go through it, Sabine, if you have not already done so. It seems we suffer all the time, because when that is over then we learn to appreciate gentleness and chivalry—and probably by then it is out of our reach."
"I don't believe anything is out of our reach if we want it enough," and Sabine closed her firm mouth.
"Then I wonder what you want, Sabine—because I know you do not really want Lord Fordyce—he represents chivalry—and I don't believe you are at that stage yet, dearest."
"What stage am I at, then, Morri?"
"The one when you want a master—you have mastered everything yourself up to now—but the moment will come to you—and then you will be fortunate, perhaps, if fate keeps the man away!"
Sabine's violet eyes grew black as night—and her little nostrils quivered.
"I know nothing of passions, Moravia," she cried, and threw out her arms. "I have only dreamed of them—imagined them. I am afraid of them—afraid to feel too much. Henry will be a haven of rest—the moment—can never come to me."
The Princess laughed a little bitterly.
"Then let us dress, darling, and go down and outshine all these dear, dowdy Englishwomen; and while you are sipping courtesy and gentleness with Lord Fordyce, I shall try to quaff gloriously attractive, aboriginal force with Mr. Arranstoun—but it would have been more suitable to our characters could we have changed partners. Now, run along!"
Rose Forsterhad felt she must not lure Mr. Arranstoun over to Ebbsworth on false pretences; he was a very much sought after young man, and since his return from the wilds had been very difficult to secure, and therefore it was her duty to give him one of her beautiful Americans at dinner. The Princess was obviously the destiny of her husband with her brother Henry upon the other side, so Michael must take in Mrs. Howard. Mr. Arranstoun was one of the last two guests to assemble in the great drawing-room where the party were collected, and did not hear of his good fortune until one minute before dinner was announced.
Sabine had perhaps never looked so well in her life. She had not her father's nation's love of splendid jewels, and wore none of any kind. Her French mother may have transmitted to her some wonderful strain of tastes which from earliest youth had seemed to guide her into selecting the most beautiful and becoming things without great knowledge. Her ugly frocks at the Convent had been a penance, and ever since she had beenfree and rich her clothes and all her belongings had been marvels of distinction and simplicity.
Moravia was, strictly speaking, far more beautiful, but Sabine, as Henry had once said, had "it."
Her manner was just what it ought to have been, as she placed her hand upon her husband's arm—perfectly indifferent and gracious, and so they went in to dinner.
Michael had hardly hoped to have this chance and meant to make the most of it. At dinner before a ball was not the place to have a serious discussion about divorce, but was for lighter and more frivolous conversation, and he felt his partner would be no unskilled adversary with the foils.
"So you have got this far north, Mrs. Howard," he began by saying, making a slight pause over the name. "I wish I could persuade you to come over the border to Arranstoun; it is only thirty-five miles from here, and really merits your attention."
"I have heard it is a most interesting place," Sabine returned, suddenly experiencing the same wild delight in the game as she had done in the garden at Héronac. "Have you ghosts there? We do not have such things in France."
"Yes, there are a number of ghosts—but the most persistent and disconcerting one is a very young girl who nightly falls through a secret door into my room."
"How romantic! What is she like?" Two violet eyeslooked up at him full of that mischief which lies in the orbs of a kitten when it contemplates some fearsome crime, and has to appear especially innocent.
Michael thrilled. If she had that expression he was quite ready to follow the lead.
"She is perfectly enchanting—shall I tell you exactly what she wears—and her every feature and the color of her eyes? The wraith so materializes that I can describe it as accurately as I could describe you sitting next me."
"Please do."
"She is about five foot seven tall—I mean she has grown as tall as that—when she first appeared she could not have been taller than five foot five."
"How strange!"
"Yes, isn't it—well, she has the most divine figure, quite slight and yet not scraggy—you know the kind, I loathe them scraggy!"
"I hate fat people."
"But she isn't fat. I tell you she is too sweet. She has a round baby face with the loveliest violet eyes in the world and such a skin!—like a velvet rose petal!" His unabashed regard penetrated Sabine who smiled slyly.
"You don't mean to say you can see all these material things in a ghost!" she cried with an enchanting air of incredulity.
"Perfectly—I have not half finished yet. I have nottold you about her mouth—it is very curved and full and awfully red—and there is the most adorable dimple up at one side of it, I am sure the people in the ghost world that she meets must awfully want to kiss it."
Sabine frowned. This was rather too intimate a description, but bashfulness or diffidence she knew were not among Mr. Arranstoun's qualities—or defects.
"I think I am tired of hearing what this ghost looks like, I want to know what does she do? Aren't you petrified with fright?"
"Not in the least," Michael told her, "but you will just have to hear about her hair—when it comes down it is like lovely bronze waves—and her little feet, too—they are exquisite enough in shoes and stockings, but without——!"
Here he had the grace to look at his fish which was just being handed.
A flush as pink as the pinkest rose came into Sabine's cheeks—he was perfectly disgraceful and this was of course in shocking taste—but when he glanced up again his attractive blue eyes had her late look of an innocent kitten's in them and he said in an angelic tone:
"She has not a fault, you may believe me, and she jumps up after the fall into the room, and sits in one of my big chairs!"
"Does she scold you for your sins as denizens of another sphere ought to do?" Mrs. Howard was constrained to ask.
"No—she is a little angel and always tells me that sins are forgiven."
"Does she come often?"
"Every single evening when I am alone—and—sometimes, she melts into my arms and stays with me all night. Binko—Ah!—you remember Binko!"—for Sabine's face had suddenly lit up—and at this passionate joy and emotion flooded Michael's and they both stopped dead short in their talk and Sabine took a quick breath that was almost a gasp.
"I remember—nothing," she said very fast, "how should I? The girl whose ghost you are speaking of ceased to exist five years ago—but I—recognize the portrait—I knew her in life—and she told me about the dog—he had fat paws and quantities of wrinkles, I think she said."
"Yes, that is Binko!" and his master beamed rapturously. "He is the most beautifully ugly bulldog in the world, but the poor old boy is getting on, he is seven years old now. Would not you like to see him—again—I mean from what you have heard!"
"I love animals, especially dogs—but tell me, is he not afraid of the ghost?"
Michael drank some champagne, even under all his unhappiness he was greatly enjoying himself. "Not at all, he loves her to come as much as I do. She haunts—both my rooms—and the chapel, too—she wears a white dress and has some stephanotis in her hair—andI am somehow compelled to enact a whole scene with her—there before the altar with all the candles blazing—and it seems as if I put a ring upon her hand—like the one you are wearing there—she has lovely hands."
The color began to die out of Sabine's cheeks and a strange look grew in her eyes. The footmen were removing the fish plates, but she was oblivious of that. Then the tones of Michael's voice changed and grew deeper.
"Soon all the vision fades into gloom, and the only thing I can see is that she is tearing my ring off and throwing it away into the darkness."
"And do you try to prevent her from doing this?" Sabine hardly spoke above a whisper, while she absently refused an entrée which was being handed. To talk of ghosts and such like things had been easy enough, but she had not bargained for him turning the conversation into one of serious meaning. She could not, however, prevent herself from continuing it, she had never been so interested in her life.
"No—I cannot do that—there is an archangel standing between."
At this moment Mrs. Howard's other neighbor claimed her attention; he was a man to whom she had been talking at tea, and who was already filled with admiration for her.
Michael had time for breathing space, and to consider whether the course he was pursuing was wisdom or not. That it was madly exciting, he knew—but where was it leading to? What did she mean? Did she feel at all? or was she one of the clever coquettes of her nation, a more refined Daisy Van der Horn—just going to lead him on into showing his emotion for her, and then going to punish and humiliate him? He must put a firmer guard over himself, for propinquity and the night were exciting influence, and the cruel fact remained that it was too late in any case. Henry's words this afternoon had cast the die forever; he—Michael—could not for any personal happiness be so hideously cruel to his old friend. Better put a bullet through his own brain than that. Whatever should develop on this night, and he meant to continue the conversation as it should seem best to him, and if she fenced too daringly with him to take the button off the foils—but whatever should come of it it should not be allowed to alter his intention of to-morrow instructing his lawyers in Edinburgh to begin divorce proceedings at once. He was like a gambler who has lost his last stake, and who still means to take what joy of life he can before the black to-morrow dawns. So, in the ten minutes or so while Sabine had turned from him, he laid his plans. He would see how much he could make her feel. He would dance with her later and then say a final farewell. If she were hurt, too, he must not care—she had made the barrier of her own free will.The person who was blameless and should not suffer was Henry. Then he began to look at Sabine furtively, and caught the outline of her sweet, averted head. How irresistibly attractive she was! The exact type he admired; not too intellectual-looking, just soft and round and babyish; there was one little curl on her snowynuquethat he longed to kiss there and then. What a time she was talking to the other man! He would not bear it!
And Sabine, while she apparently listened to her neighbor, had not the remotest idea of what he said. The whole of her being was thrilling with some strange and powerful emotion, which almost made her feel faint—she could not have swallowed a morsel of food, and simply played with her fork.
At the first possible pause, Michael addressed her again:
"Since you knew the lady in life who is now my ghost—and she told you of Binko—did she not say anything else about her visit to Arranstoun or its master?"
"Nothing—it was all apparently a blank horror, and she probably wanted to forget it and him."
"He made some kind of an impression upon her, then—good or bad, since she wanted to forget him—" eagerly.
Sabine admitted to herself that the umpires might have called "touché" for this.
"It would seem so," she allowed, with what she thought was generosity.
"That is better than only creating indifference."
"Yes—the indifference came later."
"One expected that; but there was a time, you have inferred, when she felt something. What was it? Can't you tell me?"
Excitement was rising high now in both of them, and the grouse on their plates remained almost untasted.
"At first, she did not know herself, I think; but afterwards, when she came to understand things, she felt resentment and hate, and it taught her to appreciate chivalry and gentleness."
Michael almost cried "touché!" aloud.
"He was an awful brute—the owner of Arranstoun, I suppose?"
"Yes—apparently—and one who broke a contract and rather glorified in the fact."
Michael laughed a little bitterly, as he answered:
"All men are brutes when the moment favors them, and when a woman is sufficiently attractive. We will admit that the owner of Arranstoun was a brute."
"He was a man who, I understand, lived only for himself and for his personal gratification," Mrs. Howard told him.
"Poor devil! He perhaps had not had much chance. You should be charitable!"
Sabine shrugged her shoulders in that engaging wayshe had. She had hardly looked up again at Michael since the beginning, the exigencies of the dinner-table being excuse enough for not turning her head; but his eyes often devoured her fascinating, irregular profile to try and discover her real meaning, but without success.
"He was probably one of those people who are more or less like animals, and just live because they are alive," Sabine went on. "Who are educated because they happen to have been born in the upper classes—Who drink and eat and sport and game because it gives their senses pleasure so to do—but who see no further good in things."
"A low wretch!"
"Yes—more or less."
Michael's eyes were flashing now—and she did peep at him, when he said:
"But if the original of the ghost had stayed with him, she might have been able to change this base view of life—she could have elevated him."
Sabine shook her head.
"No, she was too young and too inexperienced, and he had broken all her ideals, absolutely stunned and annihilated her whole vista of the future. There was no other way but flight. She had to reconstruct her soul alone."
"You do not ask me what became of the owner of Arranstoun—or what he did with his life."
"I know he went to China—but the matter does not interest me. There he probably continued to live and to kill other things—to seize what he wanted and get some physical joy out of existence as usual."
A look of pain now quenched the fire.
"You are very cruel," he said.
"The owner of Arranstoun was very cruel."
"He knows it and is deeply repentant; but he was and is only a very ordinary man."
"No, a savage."
"A savage then, if you will—and one dangerous to provoke too far;" the fire blazed again. "And what do you suppose your friend learned in those five years of men—after she had ceased to exist as the owner of Arranstoun knew her?"
Sabine laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.
"Of men! That they are like children, desiring only the toys that are out of reach, wasting their souls upon what they cannot obtain and valuing not at all the gifts of the gods which are in their own possession."
"What a cynical view!"
"Is it not a true one?"
"Perhaps—in some cases—in mine certainly; only I have generally managed to obtain what I wanted."
"Then it may be a new experience for you to find there was one thing which was out of your reach."
He bent forward eagerly and asked, with a catch in his breath:
"And that was——?"
"The soul of a woman—shall we say—that something which no brute force can touch."
The fencing bout was over, the foils were laid aside, and grim earnest was in Michael's voice now—modulated by civilization into that tone which does not carry beyond one's neighbor at a dinner party.
"Your soul—Sabine—that is the only thing which interests me, and I was never able to touch your soul? That is not true, as you know—How dare you say it to me. There was one moment——"
"Hush," she whispered, growing very white. "You must not—you shall not speak to me so. You had no right to come here. No right to talk to me at all—it is traitorous—we are both traitors to Lord Fordyce, who is a noble gentleman above suspecting us of such wiles."
And at that moment, through a gap in the flowers of the long table, they both saw Henry's gray eyes fixed upon them with a rather questioning surprise—and then Mrs. Forster gave the signal to the ladies, and Sabine with the others swept from the room, leaving Michael quivering with pain and emotion.
As for Sabine, she was trembling from head to foot.
During dinner, Moravia had had an interesting conversation with Henry. They had spoken of all sorts of things and eventually, toward the end of it, of Sabine.
"She is the strangest character, Lord Fordyce," Moravia said. "She is more like a boy than a girl in some ways. She absolutely rules everyone. When we were children, she and all the others used to call me the mother in our games, but it was really Sabine who settled everything. She was always the brigand captain. She got us into all the mischief of clandestine feasts and other rule breaking—and all the Sisters simply adored her, and the Mother Superior, too, and they used to let her off, no matter what she did, with not half our punishments. She was the wildest madcap you ever saw."
Henry was, of course, deeply interested.
"She is sufficiently grave and dignified now!" he responded in admiration, his worshiping eyes turned in Sabine's direction; but it was only when she moved in a certain way that he could see her, through the flowers. Michael he saw plainly all the time, and perceived that he was not boring himself.
"Her character, then, would seem to have been rather like my friend's, Michael Arranstoun's," he remarked. "They have both such an astonishing, penetrating vitality, one would almost know when either of them was in the room even if one could not see them."
"He is awfully good-looking and attractive, your friend," Moravia returned. "I have never seen such bold, devil-may-care blue eyes. I suppose women adore him; I personally have got over my interest in thatsort of man. I much prefer courteous and more diffident creatures."
Lord Fordyce smiled.
"Yes, I believe women spoil Michael terribly, and he is perfectly ruthless with them, too; but I understand that they like that sort of thing."
"Yes—most of them do. It is the simple demonstration of strength which allures them. You see, man was meant to be strong," and Moravia laughed softly, "wasn't he? He was not designed in the scheme of things to be a soft, silky-voiced creature like Cranley Beaton, for instance—talking gossip and handing tea-cups; he was just intended to be a fierce, great hunter, rushing round killing his food and capturing his mate; and women have remained such primitive unspoiled darlings, they can still be dominated by these lovely qualities—when they have a chance to see them. But, alas! half the men have become so awfully civilized, they haven't a scrap of this delightful, aboriginal force left!"
"I thought you said you personally preferred more diffident creatures," and Lord Fordyce smiled whimsically.
"So I do now—I said I had got over my interest in these savages—but, of course, I liked them once, as we all do. It is one of our fatal stages that we have to pass through, like snakes changing their skins; and it makes many of us during the time lay up for ourselves all sorts of regrets."
Henry sought eagerly through the flowers his beloved's face. Had she, too, passed through this stage—or was it to come? He asked himself this question a little anxiously, and then he remembered the words of Père Anselme, and an unrest grew in his heart. The Princess saw that some shadow had gathered upon his brow, and guessed, since she knew that his thoughts in general turned that way, that it must be something to do with Sabine—so she said:
"Sabine and I have come through our happinesses, I trust, since Convent days—and what we must hope for now is an Indian summer."
Henry turned rather wistful eyes to her.
"An Indian summer!" he exclaimed. "A peaceful, beautiful warmth after the riotous joy of the real blazing June! Tell me about it?"
Moravia sighed softly.
"It is the land where the souls who have gone through the fire of pain live in peace and quiet happiness, content to glow a little before the frosts of age come to quench all passion and pleasure."
Henry looked down at the grapes on his plate.
"There is autumn afterwards," he reasoned, "which is full of richness and glorious fruit. May we not look forward to that? But yet I know that we all deceive ourselves and live in what may be only a fool's paradise"—and then it was that he caught sight of his adored, as she bent forward after her rebuke to Michael—and with a burst of feeling in his controlled voice, he cried: "But who would forego his fool's paradise!"—and then he took in the fact that some unusual current of emotion must have been passing between the two—and his heart gave a great bound of foreboding.
For the keenness of his perceptions and his honesty of judgment made him see that they were strangely suited to one another—his darling and his friend—so strong and vital and young.