"It is Michael Arranstoun," Henry said in a voice strangled and altered with suffering. "I see every link in the chain—but, O God! why have they deceived me? What can it mean? What hideous, fiendish cruelty! And Michael was my old friend."
A wild rage and resentment convulsed him. He only felt that he wished to kill both these traitors, who had tricked him and destroyed his beliefs and his happiness. Ghastly thoughts that there might be further disclosures of more shameful deceptions to come shook him. He was trembling with passion—and then the priest said something in his grave, quiet voice which almost stunned him.
"Has it been done in cruelty, my son? You must examine well the facts before you assert that. You must not forget that whoever the husband may be, he has consented to divorce her, and she is now going to give herself to you. Is that cruelty, my son? Or is it a fine keeping to a given word? It looks to me more like a noble sacrifice, unless the Seigneur of Arranstoun was aware before he ever came here that Madame Howard was his wife."
Lord Fordyce controlled himself. This thing must be thought out.
"No, Michael could not have known it," after a moment or two he averred. "He even laughed over the name when I told it to him, and said he had a scapegrace cousin out in Arizona and wondered if the husband could be the same——"
Then further recollections came with a frightful stab of anguish, crushing all passion and anger and leaving only a sensation of pain, for he remembered that his friend had given him his word of honor that he would not interfere with him in his love-making—and, indeed, would help him in every way he could, even to lending him Arranstoun for the honeymoon! That letter of his, too, when he had gone from Héronac, saying in it casually he hoped that he, Henry, thought that he had played the game!—Yes, it was all perfectly plain. Michael had come there in all innocence, and could not be blamed. He remembered numbers of things unnoticed at the time—his own talk with Sabine when he had discussed Michael's marriage—and this brought him up suddenly to her side of the question. Why, in heaven's name, had she not told him the truth at once? Why had she pretended not to recognize Michael? For, however Michael might have started, since he, Henry, was not looking at him, Sabine, whose face he had been gazing into all the while, had shown no faintest recognition of him. What a superb actress she must be!—or perhaps, having only seen him those two times in her life, for those short moments, she really did not recognize him then. The whole thing was so staggering inits hideous tragedy his brain almost refused to think; but he said this last thought aloud, and the priest's strange sudden silence struck even his numbed sense.
"She had only seen him for such a little while—they parted immediately after the wedding; it was merely an empty ceremony, you know. Why, then, should she have had any haunting memories of him?"
The Père Anselme avoided answering this question by asking another.
"You knew that the Seigneur of Arranstoun was wedded, it would seem. How was that?"
Then Henry told him the outline of Michael's story, and the cruel irony of fate in having made him himself leave the house before seeing Sabine struck them both.
"What can her reasons have been for not telling me all this time, Father?" the unhappy man asked at last, in a hopeless voice. "Can you in any way guess?"
The Père Anselme mused for a moment.
"I have my own thoughts upon the matter, my son. We who live lonely lives very close to Nature get into the way of studying things. I have, as I told you, made some deductions, but, if you will permit me to give you some counsel, I would tell you to go back to the château now, with noparti pris, and seek her immediately, and get her to tell you the whole truth yourself. Of what good for you and me to speculate, since we neither of us know all the facts?—or even, if our suppositions are correct——" Then, as Lord Fordyce hesitated, he continued: "The time has passed for reticence. There should be no more avoiding of feared subjects. Go, go, my son, and discover the entire truth."
"And what then!" The cry came from Henry's agonized heart. But the priest answered gravely:
"That is in the hand of God. My duty is done."
And so they returned in silence, the Père Anselme praying fervently to himself. And when they reached the house, Lord Fordyce stumbled up the stone stairs heavily and knocked at the door of Sabine's sitting-room. He had seen Moravia at her window in the inner building, and knew that this woman who held his life in her hand would be alone.
Then, in response to a gentle "Entrez" he opened the door and went in.
Sabine had been sitting at her writing-table, an open blue despatch-box at her side. She was at the far end of the great apartment, so that Henry had some way to go toward her in the gloom, as, but for the large lamp near her and the blazing wood fire at each end, there was no light in the vast room. She rose to meet him, a gentle smile upon her face, and then, when he came close to her, she realized that something had happened, and suddenly put her hand out to steady herself upon the back of a chair.
"Henry—what is it?" she said, in a very low voice."Come, let us go over there and sit down," and she drew him to the same sofa where that very morning they had sat when she had let him kiss her. This thought was extra pain.
He was so very quiet he frightened her, and his gray eyes looked into hers with such a world of despair, but no reproach.
"Sabine," he commanded in a voice out of which had vanished all life and hope, "tell me the whole story, my dear love."
She clasped her hands convulsively—so the dreaded moment had come! There would be no use in making any excuses or protestations, her duty now was to master herself and collect her words to tell him the truth. The utter misery in his noble face wrung her heart, so that her voice trembled too much to speak at first; then she controlled it and began.
So all was told at last.
Then Henry took her two cold hands again and drew her up with him as he rose.
"Sabine," he said with deep emotion, his heart at breaking point, but all thought of himself put aside in the supreme unselfishness of his worship; "Sabine, to-morrow I will prove to you what true love means. But now, my dearest, I will say good-night. I think I mustgo to my room for a little; this has been a tremendous shock."
He bent and kissed her forehead with reverence and blessing, as her father might have done, and, hiding all further emotion, he walked steadily from the room.
WhenLord Fordyce found himself alone, it felt as if life itself must leave him, the agony of pain was so great, the fiendish irony of circumstances. It almost seemed that each time he had intended to do a good thing, he had been punished. He had left Arranstoun for the best motive, and so had not seen Sabine and thus saved himself from future pain; he had taken Michael to Héronac out of kindly friendship, and this had robbed him of his happiness. But, awful as the discovery was now, it was not half so terrible as it would have been if the truth had only come to him later, when Sabine had become his wife. He must be thankful for that. Things had always been inevitable; it was plain to be understood that she had loved Michael all along, and nothing he personally could have done with all his devotion could have changed this fact. He ought to have known that it was hopeless and that he was only living in a fool's paradise. Never once had he seen the light in her eyes for himself which sprang there even at the mention of Michael's name. What was this tremendous power this man possessed to so deeply affect women, to so greatly charm every one? Was it just "it," as the Princess had said? Anguish now fell upon Henry; there was no consolation anywhere to be found.
He went over again all the details of the story he had heard, and himself filled up the links in the chain. How brutal it was of Michael to have induced her to stay—even if she remained of her own accord—and then the frightful thoughtless recklessness of letting her go off afterwards just because he was angry! Wild fury blazed up against his old friend. The poor darling little girl to be left to suffer all alone! Oh! how tender and passionately devoted he would have been under the same circumstances. Would Michael ever make her happy or take proper care of her? He paced his room, his mind racked with pain. Every single turn of events came back to him, and his own incredible blindness. How had he been so unseeing? How, to begin with, had he not recalled the name of Sabine as being the one he had read long ago in the paper as that of the girl whom Michael had gone through the ceremony of marriage with? It had faded completely from his memory. Everything seemed to have combined to lead him on to predestined disaster and misery—even in Sabine's and Michael's combining to keep the matter secret from him not to cause him pain—all had augmented the suffering now. If—but there was no good in contemplating ifs—what he had to do was to think clearly as to whatwould be the wisest course to secure his darling's happiness. That must be his first consideration. After that, he must face his own cruel fate with what courage he could command.
Her happiness could only come through the divorce proceedings being stopped at once, and in her being free to go back to the man whom she loved. Then the aspect that Michael had been willing to do a really fine thing for the sake of friendship struck him—perhaps he was worthy of Sabine, after all; and they were young and absolutely suited to one another. No, the wickedness would have been if he, whose youth had passed, had claimed her and come between. He was only now going through the same agony his friend must have done, and he had a stronger motive to help him, in the wish to secure the joy of this adored woman, whereas Michael knew he was condemning her to sorrow as well as himself, and had been strong enough to do it simply from honor and friendship. No, he had no right to think of him as brutal or not fine; and now it was for him, Henry, to bring back happiness to his darling and to his old friend.
He sat down in a chair beside the fire and set himself to think. To have to take some decided course came as a relief. He would go out into the village and telegraph to Michael to come to Héronac at once. He was in Paris, staying at the Ritz, he knew; he could be there to-morrow—on Christmas Day! Surely that was well,when peace and good-will towards men should be over all the earth—and he, Henry, would meet him at the house of the Père Anselme and explain all to him, and then take him back to Sabine. He would not see her again until then.
He found telegraph forms on his writing-table and rapidly wrote out his message. "Come immediately by first train, meet me at house of Père Anselme, a matter of gravest importance to you and Sabine," and he signed it "Fordyce." Then he firmly controlled himself and went off with it into the night.
The cold air struck his face and confronted him with its fierceness; the wind was getting up; to-morrow the waves would again be rough.
The village was not far away, and he soon had reached his goal and sent the telegram. Then he stopped at thepresbytère. He must speak once more to the priest. The Père Anselme led him in to his bare little parlor and drew him to the warm china stove. It was only two hours since they had parted, but Lord Fordyce looked like an old man.
"I have come to tell you, my Father," he said, "that I know all of the story now, and it is terrible enough; but I want you to help me to secure her happiness. Michael Arranstoun is her husband, as you supposed, and she loves him." The old priest nodded his head comprehendingly, and Henry went on. "They only parted to save me pain. It was a tremendous sacrificewhich, of course, I cannot accept. So now I have sent for him, and I want you to let me meet him here at your house, and explain everything to him to-morrow before he sees her. I hope, if he gets my telegram in time, he will catch the train from Paris at midnight to-night; it gets in about nine in the morning. Then they can be happy on Christmas Day."
"You have done nobly, my son," and the Père Anselme lifted his hand in blessing. "It is very merciful that this has been in time. You will not be permitted to suffer beyond your strength since you have done well. The good God is beyond all things, just. My home is at your service—And how is she, our dear Dame d'Héronac? Does she know that her husband will come?"
"She knows nothing. I told her we should settle all questions to-morrow. She offered to keep her word to me, the dear child."
"And she told you the whole story? She had the courage? Yes? That was fine of her, because she has never spoken of all her sorrows directly, even to me."
"She told me everything, Father. There are no secrets any more; and her story is a pitiful one, because she was so young."
"It is possible it has been well for them," the priest said meditatively, looking into the glowing fire in the stove whose door he had opened. "They were too young and undisciplined at first for happiness—they have come through so much suffering now they will cling to eachother and joy and not let it slip from their hands. She is more suited to such a one as the Seigneur of Arranstoun than any other—there is a vigor of youth in her which must find expression. And it is something to be of noble blood, after all." Here he turned and looked contemplatively at Henry. "It makes one able to surmount anguish and remain a gentleman with manners, even at such a cruel crisis as this. You have all my deep understanding and sympathy, my son. I, too, have passed that way, and know your pain. But consolation will come. I find it here in the cure of souls—you will find it in your England, leading your fellow countrymen to finer ends. It is not for all of us, the glory of the dawn or the meridian, but we can all secure a sunset of blessed peace if we will." And then, as Henry wrung his thin old hand, he muttered with tenderness, "Good-night, andpax vobiscum," while a moisture glistened in his keen black eyes.
And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into his little room, this thought going on with him:
"A great gentleman—though my Dame d'Héronac will be happier with the fierce one. Youth must have its day, and all is well."
But Henry, striding in the dark with the sound of the rushing sea for company, found no consolation.
When he got back to the château and was going up the chief staircase to his room, he met Moravia comingdown. She had just left Sabine and knew the outlines of what had happened. Her astonishment and distress had been great, but underneath, as she was only human, there was some sense of personal upliftment; she could try to comfort the disconsolate lover at least. Sabine had given her to understand that nothing was finally settled between herself and Henry, but Moravia felt there could be only one end; she knew he was too unselfish to hold Sabine for an instant, once he understood that she would rather be free; so it was in the character of fond friend that she put out her hand and grasped his in silent sympathy.
"Henry," she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, "my heart is breaking for you. Can I do anything?"
He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being a singularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love and solicitude in her face, and took and held her white fingers.
"You are always so good to me. But there is nothing to be done."
She slid her other hand into his arm and drew him on into the little sitting-room which was always set apart for her, close to her room.
"I am going to take care of you for the next hour, anyway—you look frozen," she told him. "I shall make you sit in the big chair by the fire while I give you something to drink. It is only half-past six."
Then with fond severity she pushed him into a comfortablebergère, and, leaving him, gave an order to her maid in the next room to bring some brandy. But before it came Moravia went back again, and drawing a low stool sat down almost at Henry's feet.
The fire and her gentleness were soothing to him, as he lay there huddled in the chair. The physical reaction was upon him from the shock and he felt almost as though he were going to faint.
Moravia watched him anxiously for some time without speaking—he was so very pale. Then she got up quickly when the maid brought in the tray, and pouring him out some brandy she brought it over and knelt down by his side.
"Drink this," she commanded kindly. "I shall not stir until you do."
Henry took the glass with nerveless fingers and gulped down the liquid as he was bid, but although she took the glass from him she did not get off her knees; indeed, when she had pushed it on to the tray near her, she came closer still and laid her cheek against his coat, taking his right hand and chafing it between her own to bring back some life into him, while she kept up a murmured flow of sweet sympathy—as one would talk to an unhappy child.
Henry was not actually listening to her, but the warmth and the great vibrations of love coming fromher began to affect him unconsciously, so that he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his side.
"Henry," she whispered with a little gasp in her breath, "I would take all pain away from you, dear, if I could, but I can't do anything, only just pet and love you into feeling better. After all, everything passes in time. I thought I should never get over the death of my husband, Girolamo, and now I don't care a bit—in fact, I only care about you and want to make you less unhappy."
The Princess thoroughly believed in La Rochefoucauld's maxim with the advice that people were more likely to take to a new passion when still agitated by the rests of the old one than if they were completely cured. She intended, now that she was released from all honor to her friend, to do her very uttermost to draw Henry to herself, and thought it much wiser to begin to strike when the iron was hot.
Henry did not answer her; he merely pressed her hand, while he thought how un-English, her action was, and how very kind. She was certainly the dearest woman he had ever met—beyond Sabine.
Moravia was not at all discouraged, but continued to rub his hands, first one and then the other, while he remained passive under her touch.
"Sabine is perfectly crushed with all this," she went on. "I have just left her. She does not know what you mean to do, but I am sure I can guess. You meanto give her back to Mr. Arranstoun—and it will be much better. She has always been in love with him, I believe, and would never have agreed to try to arrange for a divorce if she had not been awfully jealous about Daisy Van der Horn. I remember now telling her quite innocently of the reports about them in Paris before we went to England, and now that I come to think of it, I noticed she was rather spiteful over it at the time."
Henry did not answer, so she continued, in a frank, matter-of-fact way:
"You can imagine what a strange character Sabine has when I tell you, in all these years of our intimate friendship she never has told me a word of her story until just now. She was keeping it all in to herself—I can't think why."
Henry did speak at last, but his words came slowly. "She wanted to forget, poor little girl, and that was the best way to bury it all out of sight."
"There you are quite wrong," returned Moravia, now seated upon her footstool again, very close, with her elbows propped on Henry's knees, while she still held his hands and intermittently caressed them with her cheek. "That is the way to keep hurts burning and paining forever, fostering them all in the dark—it is much better to speak about them and let the sun get in on them and take all their sorrow away. That is why I would not let you be by yourself now, dear friend, as I suppose one of your reserved countrymen would havedone. I just determined to make you talk about it, and to realize that there are lots of lovely other things to comfort you, and that you are not all alone."
Henry was strangely touched at her kind common sense; he already felt better and not so utterly crushed out with despair. He told her how sweet and good she was and what a true, unselfish woman—but Moravia shook her head.
"I am not a bit; it is purely interested, because I am so awfully fond of you myself. Iloveto pet you—there!" and she laughed softly, so happy to see that she had been able even to make this slight effect, for she saw the color had come back in a measure to his face, and her keen brain told her that this was the right tack to go upon—not to be too serious or show any sentiment, but just to use a sharp knife and cut round all the wound and then pour honey and balm into it herself.
"You and Sabine would never really have been happy together," she now told him. "You were much too subservient to her and let her order you about. She would have grown into a bully. Now, Mr. Arranstoun won't stand a scrap of nonsense, I am sure; he would make any woman obey him—if necessary by using brute force! They are perfectly suited to one another, and very soon you will realize it and won't care. Do you remember how we talked at dinner that night at Ebbsworth about women having to go through a stage intheir lives sooner or later when they adored just strength in a man and wanted a master? Well, I wondered then if Sabine had passed hers, but I was afraid of hurting you, so I would not say that I rather thought she had not."
"Oh, I wish you had!" Henry spoke at last. "And yet, no—the whole thing has been inevitable from the first, I see it plainly. The only thing is, if I had found it out sooner it might have saved Sabine pain. But it is not too late, thank God—the divorce proceedings can be quashed; it would have been a little ironical if she had had to marry him again."
"Yes," Moravia agreed. "Now, if we could only get him to come here immediately, we could explain it all to him and make him wire to his lawyers at once."
"I have already sent for him—I think he will arrive to-morrow at nine."
"How glorious! It was just the dear, splendid thing you would do, Henry," Moravia cried, getting up from her knees. "But we won't tell Sabine; we will just let her mope there up in her room, feeling as miserable as she deserves to be for not knowing her own mind. We will all have a nice dinner—no, that won't be it—you and I will dine alone here, up in this room, and Papa can talk to Madame Imogen. In this house, thank goodness, we can all do what we like, and I am not going to leave you, Henry, until we have got to say good-night. I don't care whether you want me or not—I have just taken charge of you, and I mean you to do what I wish—there!"
And she crept closer to him again and laid her face upon his breast, so that his cheek was resting upon her soft dark hair. Great waves of comfort flowed to Henry. This sweet woman loved him, at all events. So he put his arm round her again, while he assured her he did want her, and that she was an angel, and other such terms. And by the time she allowed him to go to his room to dress for dinner, a great measure of his usual nerve and balance was restored. She had not given him a moment to think, even shaking her finger at him and saying that if he was more than twenty minutes dressing, she would herself come and fetch him and bring him back to her room.
Then, when he had left her, this true daughter of Eve, after ordering dinner to be served to them, proceeded to make herself as beautiful as possible for the next scene. She felt radiant. It was enormous what she had done.
"Why, he was on the verge of suicide!" she said to herself, "and now he is almost ready to smile. Before the evening is over I shall have made him kiss me—and before a month is past we shall be engaged. What perfect nonsense to have silly mawkish sentiment over anything! The thing to do is to win one's game."
Lord Fordycefound himself dressing in the usual way and with the usual care, such creatures of habit are we—and yet, two hours earlier, he had felt that life was over for him. Although he did not know it, Moravia had been like a strong restorative applied at the right moment, and the crisis of his agony had gone by. It was not that he was not still overcome by sorrow, or that moments of complete anguish would not recur, but the current had been diverted from taking a fatal turn, and gradually things would mend. The perfect, practical common sense of Moravia was so good for him. She was not intellectual like Sabine, she was just a dear, beautiful, kind, ordinary woman, extremely in love with him, but too truly American ever to lose her head, and now in real spirits at the prospect of playing so delightful a game. She was thoroughly versed in the ways of male creatures, and although she possessed none of Sabine's indescribable charm, she had had numbers of admirers and would-be lovers and was in every way fitted to cope with any man. This evening, she had determined so to soothe, flatter and pet Henry that he should go to bednot realizing that there was any change in himself, but should be in reality completely changed. Her preparations had been swift but elaborate. She had rushed to Madame Imogen's room, and got her to take special messages to the chef, and dinner would be waited on by her own maid—with Nicholas just to run in and open the champagne. Then she selected a ravishing rose-pink chiffon tea-gown, all lacy and fresh, and lastly she had a big fire made up and all the curtains drawn, and so she awaited Henry's coming with anticipations of delight. She had even got Mr. Cloudwater (thatpère aprivoisé!) to mix her two dry Martini cocktails, which were ready for her guest.
Henry knocked at the door exactly at eight o'clock, and she went to meet him with all the air of authority of a mother, and led him into the room, pushing him gently into the chair she had prepared for him. A man may have a broken heart—but the hurt cannot feel so great when he is surrounded with every comfort and ministered to by a beautiful young woman, who is not only in love with him, but has the nerve to keep her head and not neglect a single point which can be of use in her game.
If she had shown him too much sympathy, or just been ultra-refined and silent and adoring, Henry by this time would have been quite as unhappy as he had been at first; but he was too courteous by nature not to try to be polite and appreciative of kindness whenshe tendered it so frankly, no matter what his inward feelings might be—and this she knew she could count upon and meant to exploit. She argued very truly that if he were obliged to act, it would brace him up and be beneficial to him, even though at the moment he would much prefer to be alone. So now she made him drink the cocktail, and then she deliberately spoke of Sabine, wondering if she would be awfully surprised to see Michael, and if he would take her back with him to Arranstoun. Henry winced at every word, but he had to answer, and presently he found he did not feel so sad. Then, with dexterity, she turned the conversation to English politics and got him to explain points to her, and at every moment she poured in insidious flattery and frank, kind affection, so that by the time the ice had come, Henry had begun to feel unaccountably soothed. She was really a beautiful woman and arranged with a wonderfulchic, and he realized that she had never looked more charming or been so sweet. She had all the sense of power being on her side, now that she had a free hand, unhampered by honor to her friend, and when the dessert and the cigarettes had come, she felt that she might indulge in a little sentiment.
She remembered that he only smoked cigars, and got up and helped him to light one of his own; and when she was quite close to him, she put her hand out and stroked his hair.
"Even if he does not like it at first," she told herself,"he is too polite to say so, and presently, just because he is a man, it will give him a thrill."
"I do love your light hair, Henry," she said aloud, "and it is so well brushed. You Englishmen are certainlysoignécreatures, and I like your lazy, easy grace—as though you would never put yourself out for any one. I can't bear a fuss." She puffed her cigarette and did not wait for him to answer her, but prattled on perfectly at ease. Even his courtesy would not have prevented him from snubbing her, if she had been the least tentative in her caressings, or the least diffident. But she just took it as a matter of course that she could stroke his hair if she wanted to, and presently it began to give him a sensation of pleasure and rest. If she had, by word or look, suggested that she expected some return, Henry would have frozen at once—but all she did was apparently only to please herself, and so he had no defense to make. Still in the character of domestic tyrant, she presently led him to the comfortable armchair, and once more seated herself upon the stool close to the fire by his side. Here she was silent for a few moments, letting the comfort of the whole scene sink in to his brain—and then, when the maid came in to clear away the dinner-table, she got up and went to the piano, where she played some soft, but not sentimental tunes. Music of a certain sort would be the worst thing for him, but a light air while Marie was in the room could do no harm. Though, when she wentover close to him again, she saw that even this pause had allowed him time to think, and that his face was once more overcome by melancholy, although he greeted her with a smile.
Something further must be done.
"Henry," she said, cooingly, kneeling down beside him and taking his hand, "will you promise me something, please. I am not clever like you, but I do know one splendid recipe for taking away pain; every time the thought of Sabine comes up to you and the old pictures you used to hold, look them squarely in the face, and then deliberately replace them with others that you can obtain—the strange law of periodicity will be in motion and, if you have only will enough, gradually the pictures that can be yours will unconsciously have taken the place of the old ones which have caused you pain. Is it not much better to do that than just to let yourself grieve—surely it is more like a man?"
Henry looked at her, a little startled. This idea had never presented itself to him. Yes, it was certainly more like a man to try any measure than "just to grieve," and what if there should be some truth in this suggestion—? What did the "law of periodicity" mean? What an American phrase! How apt they were at coining expressive sentences. He looked into the glowing ashes—there he seemed to see in ruins the whole fabric of his dreams—but if there was a law which brought thoughts back, and back again at the same hour eachday, then Moravia was right: he must blot out the old pictures and conjure up new ones—but what could they be—?
"You are musing, Henry," Moravia's voice went on. "Are you thinking over what I said? I hope so, and you will find it is true. See, I will tell you what to visualize there in the fire. You are looking at a splendid English home, all peace and warmth, and you see yourself in it happy and surrounded by friends. And you see yourself a great man, the center of political interest, and everything coming toward you that heart can desire. It is awfully wanting in common sense to think because you cannot obtain one woman there are none others in the world."
"Awfully," agreed Henry—suddenly taking in the attractive picture she made, seated there at his knees, her white hand holding his hand. His thoughts wandered for a moment, as thought will do when the mind is overstrained; they wandered to the speculation of why American women should have such small and white hands, and then he brought himself back to the actual conversation.
"You mean to tell me," he said, "that if every time I remember, when I am dwelling upon the subject which pains me, that I must make my thoughts turn to other things which give me pleasure, that gradually the new thoughts will banish the old?"
"Of course, I mean that," Moravia told him. "Everything comes in cycles; that is why people get into habits. You just try, Henry; you can cure the habit of pain as easily as you can cure any habit. It is all a question of will."
She saw that she had created interest in his eyes, and rejoiced. That crisis had passed! and it would be safe to go on.
"I shall not get him to kiss me to-night, after all," she decided to herself. "If I did, he would probably feel annoyed to-morrow, with some ridiculous sense of a too sudden disloyalty to Sabine's memory—and he might be huffed with himself, too, thinking he had given way; it might wound his vanity. I shall just draw him right out and make him want to kiss me, but not consciously—and then it will be safe when he is at that pitch to let him go off to bed."
This plan she proceeded to put into practice. She exploited the subject they had been talking of to its length, and aroused a sharp discussion and argument—while she took care to place herself in the most alluring attitudes as close to Henry as she possibly could be, while maintaining a basis of frank friendship, and then she changed the current by getting him to explain to her exactly what he had done about Michael, and how they should arrange the meeting between the two, putting into her eagerness all the sparkle that she would have used in collaborating with him over the placing of the presents upon a Christmas tree—until,at last, Henry began to take some sort of pride in the thing itself.
"I want you to let Sabine think you are just going to forgive her for her deception, but intend her to keep her word to you; and then you can take Mr. Arranstoun up to her sitting-room when you have brought him from the Père Anselme's—and just push him in and let them explain matters themselves. Won't it be a moment for them both!"
Henry writhed.
"Yes," he gasped, "a great moment."
"And you are not going to care one bit, Henry," Moravia went on, with authority. "I tell you, you are not."
Then, having made all clear as to their joint action upon the morrow, she spent the last half hour before they parted in instilling into his spirit every sort of comfort and subtle flattery until, when the clock struck eleven, Henry felt a sense of regret that he must say good-night.
By this time, her head was within a few inches of his shoulder, and her pretty eyes were gazing into his with the adoring affection of a child.
"You are an absolute darling, Moravia," he murmured, with some emotion, "the kindest woman in this world," and he bent and kissed her hair.
She showed no surprise—to take the caress naturally would, she felt, leave him with the pleasure of it, andarouse no disturbing analyzations in his mind as to its meaning.
"Now you have got to go right off to your little bed," she said, in a matter of fact 'mother' tone, "and I should just like to come and tuck you up, and turn your light out—but as I can't, you'll promise me you will do it yourself at once—and close those eyes and go to sleep." Here she permitted herself softly to shut his lids with her smooth fingers.
Henry felt a delicious sense of comfort and peace creeping over him—he knew he did not wish to leave her—but he got up and took both her hands.
"Good-night, you sweet lady," he said. "You will never know how your kind heart has helped me to-night, nor can I express my gratitude for your spontaneous sympathy," with which he kissed the fair hands, and went regretfully toward the door.
Moravia thought this the right moment to show a little further sentiment.
"Good-night, Henry," she faltered. "It has been rather heaven for me—but I don't think I'll let you dine up here alone with me again—it—it might make my heart ache, too." And then she dexterously glided to the door of her bed-room and slipped in, shutting it softly.
And Henry found himself alone, with some new fire running in his veins.
When Moravia, listening, heard his footsteps going down the passage, she clasped her hands in glee.
"I 'shall never know'! 'My spontaneous sympathy'!—Oh! the darling, innocent babe! But I've won the game. He will belong to me now—and I shall make him happy. Ouida was most certainly right when she said, 'Men are not vicious; they are but children.'"
Veryearly on Christmas morning, Lord Fordyce went down to thepresbytèreand walked with the Père Anselme on his way to Mass. He had come to a conclusion during the night. The worthy priest would be the more fitting person to see Michael than he, himself; he felt he could well leave all explanations in those able hands—and then, when his old friend knew everything, he, Henry, would meet him and bring him to the Château of Héronac, and so to Sabine.
The Père Anselme was quite willing to undertake this mission; he would have returned to his breakfast by then and would await Michael's arrival, he told Henry. Michael would come from the station, twenty kilometers away, in Henry's motor.
The wind had got up, and a gloriously rough sea beat itself against the rocks. The thundering surf seemed some comfort to Henry. He was unconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had ever imagined that he could feel after such a blow. Moravia's maneuvrings and sweet sympathy had beenmost effective, and Henry had fallen asleep while her spell was still upon him—and only awakened after several hours of refreshing slumber. Then it was he decided upon the plan, which he put into execution as soon as daylight came. Now he left the old priest at the church door and strode away along the rough coast road, battling with the wind and trying to conquer his thoughts.
He was following Moravia's advice, and replacing each one of pain as it came with one of pleasure—and the cold air exhilarated his blood.
Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxiety and speculation. What had happened? There was no clue in Henry's dry words in the telegram. Had there been some disaster? Was Henry violently angry with him? What would their meeting bring? He had come in to the Ritz from a dinner party, and had got the telegram just in time to rush straight to the station with a hastily-packed bag, and get into an almost-moving train, and all night long he had wondered and wondered, as he sat in the corner of his carriage. But whatever had happened was a relief—it produced action. He had no longer just to try to kill time and stifle thought; he could do something for good or ill.
It seemed as though he would never arrive, as the hours wore on and dawn faded into daylight. Then, at last, the crawling engine drew up at his destination,and he got out and recognized Henry's chauffeur waiting for him on the platform. The swift rush through the cold air refreshed him, and took away the fatigue of the long night—and soon they had drawn up at the door of thepresbytère, and he found himself being shown by the priest's ancient housekeeper into the spotlessly clean parlor.
The Père Anselme joined him in a moment, and they silently shook hands.
"You are not aware, sir, why you have been sent for, I suppose?" the priest asked, with his mild courtesy. "Pray be seated, there by the stove, and I will endeavor to enlighten you."
Michael sat down.
"Please tell me everything," he said.
The Père Anselme spread out his thin hands toward the warmth of the china, while he remained standing opposite his visitor.
"The good God at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that our Dame d'Héronac has not been altogether happy of late—and upon my suggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what I believe to be the truth—which you, sir, can corroborate—namely, that you are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, but from a motive of loyalty to your friend."
"That is the case," assented Michael quietly, a sudden great joy in his heart.
The priest was silent, so he went on:
"And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?—release her and give her back to me—or what,mon Père?"
"Is it necessary to ask?" and Père Anselme lifted questioning and almost whimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is a gentleman!"
"Yes, I know that—but it must mean the most awful suffering to him—poor, dear old Henry—Is he quite knocked out?"
"The good God tries no one beyond his strength—he will find consolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer you the hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"—here the old man made a courtly bow—"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, you can take the road to the Château of Héronac, where you will find Lord Fordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to Madame Sabine. That is as he may think wisest—I believe she is quite unprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you are the best judge yourself."
"It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time,mon Père."
"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves—since the good God has seen fit to restore you to happiness."
"I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?"
The old priest coughed slightly.
"I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine——"
Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly.
"No, indeed, I do not—I know I have been an unspeakable brute—I have not the grain of an excuse to offer—and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not,mon Père?"
The Curé of Héronac sighed gently.
"Angels when they love, and demons when they hate—of an unbalance—but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them—to heaven or hell."
Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Père Anselme led the way without further words.
Less than an hour later, the two men who loved this one woman met just over the causeway, where Henry awaited Michael's coming. It was a difficult moment for them both, but they clasped hands with a few ordinary words. Henry's walk in the wind had strengthened his nerves. For some reason, he was now conscious that he was feeling no acute pain as he had expected that he would do, and that there was even some kind of satisfaction in the thought that, on thisChristmas morning, he was able to bring great happiness to Sabine. He could not help remarking, as they crossed the drawbridge, that Michael looked a most suitable mate for her: he was such a picture of superb health and youth. As they entered the courtyard, Moravia and her little son came out of the main door.
The Princess greeted them gaily. She was going to show Girolamo the big waves from the causeway bridge before going on to church; they had a good half-hour. She experienced no surprise at seeing Michael, only asking about his night journey's uncomfortableness, and then she turned to Henry:
"Come and join us there by the high parapet, Henry, as soon as you have taken Mr. Arranstoun up to Sabine. She has not come out of her wing yet; but I know that she is dressed and in her sitting-room," and smiling merrily, she took Girolamo's little hand and went her way.
There was no sound when the two men reached Sabine's sitting-room door. Henry knocked gently, but no answer came; so he opened it and looked in. Great fires burned in the wide chimneys and his flowers gave forth sweet scent, but the Lady of Héronac was absent, or so it seemed.
"Come in, Michael, and wait," Henry said; and then, from the embrasure of the far window, they heard a stifled exclamation, and saw that Sabine was indeed there after all, and had risen from the floor, where shehad been kneeling by the window-seat looking out upon the waves.
Her face was deadly pale and showed signs of a night's vigil, but when she caught sight of Michael it was as though the sun had emerged from a cloud, so radiant grew her eyes. She stood quite still, waiting until they advanced near to her down the long room, and then she steadied herself against the back of a tall chair.
"Sabine," Henry said, "I want you to be very happy on this Christmas day, and so I have brought your husband back to you. All these foolish divorce proceedings are going to be stopped, and you and he can settle all your differences, together, dear—" then, as a glad cry forced itself from Sabine's lips—his voice broke with emotion. She stretched out her hands to him, and he took one and drew her to Michael, who stood behind him.
Then he took also his old friend's hand, and clasped it upon Sabine's.
"I am not much of a churchman," he said, hoarsely, "but this part of the marriage service is true, I expect. 'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.'" Then he dropped their hands, and turned toward the door.
"Oh! Henry, you are so good to us!" Sabine cried. "No words can say what I feel."
But Lord Fordyce could bear no more—and murmuring some kind of blessing, he got from the room, leaving the two there in the embrasure of the great window gazing into each other's eyes.
As the door shut, Michael spoke at last:
"Sabine—My own!" he whispered, and held out his arms.
When Henry left Sabine's sitting-room, he staggered down the stairs like one blind—the poignant anguish had returned, and the mantle of comfort fell from his shoulders. He was human, after all, and the picture of the rapture on the faces of the two, showing him what he had never obtained, stabbed him like a knife. He felt that he would willingly drop over the causeway bridge into the boiling sea, and finish all the pain. He saw Moravia's blue velvet dress in the distance down the road when he left the lodge gates, and he fled into the garden; he must be alone—but she had seen him go, and knew that another crisis had come and that she must conquer this time also. So apparently only for the gratification of Girolamo, she turned and entered the garden—the garden which seemed to be a predestined spot for the stratagems of lovers!—then she strolled toward the sea-wall, not turning her head in the direction where she plainly perceived Henry had gone, but taking care that Girolamo should see him, as she knew he would run to him. This he immediately did, and dragged his victim back to his mother in thepavilion which looked out over the sea. Girolamo was now three years old and a considerable imp; he displayed Henry proudly and boasted of his catch—while Moravia scolded him sweetly and asked Henry to forgive them for intruding upon his solitude.
"You know I understand you must want to be alone, dear friend, and I would not have come if I had seen you," she said, tenderly, while she turned and, leaning out, beckoned to the nurse, whom she could just see across the causeway on the courtyard wall, where the raised parapet was. Then allowing her feelings to overcome her judgment, she flung out her arms and seizing Henry's hands, she drew them into her warm, huge muff.
"Henry—I can't help it—!" she gasped. "It breaks my heart to see you so cold and white and numb—I want to warm and comfort and love you back to life again——!"
At this minute, the sun burst through the scudding clouds, and blazed in upon them from the archway; and it seemed to Henry as if a new vitality rushed into his frozen veins. She was so human and pretty, and young and real. Love for him spoke from her sparkling, brown eyes. The ascendancy she had obtained over him on the previous evening returned in a measure; he no longer wanted to get away from her and be alone.
He made some murmuring reply, and did not seek to draw away his hands—but a sudden change of feeling seemed to come over Moravia for she lowered her head and a deep, pink flush grew in her cheeks.
"What will you think of me, Henry?" she whispered, pulling at his grasp, which grew firmer as she tried to loosen it. "I"—and then she raised her eyes, which were suffused with tears. "Oh! it seems such horrid waste for you to be sick with grief for Sabine, who is happy now—and that only I must grieve——"
Girolamo had seen his nurse entering the far gate and was racing off to meet her, so that they were quite alone in the pavilion now, and Moravia's words and the tears in her fond eyes had a tremendous effect upon Henry. It moved some unknown cloud in his emotions. She, too, wanted comfort, not he alone—and he could bring it to her and be soothed in return, so he drew her closer and closer to him, and framed her face in his hands.
"Moravia," he said, tenderly. "You shall not grieve, dear child—If you want me, take me, and I will give you all the devotion of true friendship—and, who knows, perhaps we shall find the Indian summer, after all, now that the gates of my fool's paradise are shut."
In the abstract, it was not highly gratifying to a woman's vanity, this declaration! but, as a matter of fact, it was beyond Moravia's wildest hopes. She had not a single doubt in her astute American mind that, once she should have the right to the society of Henry—with her knowledge of the ways of man—that shewould soon be able to obliterate all regrets for Sabine, and draw his affections completely to herself.
At this juncture, she showed a stroke of genius.
"Henry," she said, her voice vibrating with profound feeling, "I do want you—more than anything I have ever wanted in my life—and I will make you forget all your hurts—in my arms."
There was certainly nothing left for Lord Fordyce, being a gallant gentleman, to do but to stoop his tall head and kiss her—and, to his surprise, he found this duty turn into a pleasure—so that, in a few moments, when they were close together looking out upon the waves through the pavilion's wide windows, he encircled her with his arm—and then he burst into a laugh, but though it was cynical, it contained no bitterness.
"Moravia—you are a witch," he told her. "Here is a situation that, described, would read like pathos—and yet it has made us both happy. Half an hour ago, I was wishing I might step over into that foam—and now——"
"And now?" demanded the Princess, standing from him.
"And now I realize that, with the New Year, there may dawn new joys for me. Oh! my dear, if you will be content with what I can give you, let us be married soon and go to India for the rest of the winter."
The Père Anselme noticed that his only congregationfrom the Château consisted of Mr. Cloudwater and Madame Imogen; and he thanked the good God—as he sent up a fervent prayer for the absentees' happiness.
"It means that they two are near heaven, and that consolation will come to the disconsolate one, since all four remain at home," he told himself. This was a dénouement worthy of Christmas Day, and of far more value in his eyes than the two pairs' mere presence in his church.
"The ways of the good God are marvellous," he mused, as he went to his vestry, "and it is fitting that youth should find its mate. We grieve and wring our hearts—and nothing is final—and while there is life there is hope—that love may bloom again. Peace be with them."
Whenthe first moment of ecstasy in the knowledge that they were indeed given back to each other was over, Michael drew Sabine to the window seat where she had been crouching only that short while before in silent misery.
"Sweetheart," he entreated, "now you have got to tell me everything—do you understand, Sabine—every single thing from the first moment in the chapel when we made those vows until now when we are going to keep them. I want to know everything, darling child—all your thoughts and what you did with your life—and when you hated me and when you loved me——"
They sat down on the velvet cushions and Sabine nestled into his arms.
"It is so difficult, Michael," she cooed, "how can I begin? I was sillier and more ignorant than any other girl of seventeen could possibly be, I think—don't you? Oh! don't let us speak of that part—I only remember that when you kissed me first in the chapel some kind of strange emotion came to me—then I was frightened——"
"But not after a while," he interpolated, something of rapturous triumph in his fond glance, while he caressed and smoothed her hair, as her little head lay against his shoulder, "I thought you had forgiven me before I went to sleep."
"Perhaps I had—I did not know myself—only that there in the gray dawn everything seemed perfectly awful and horror and terror came upon me again, and I had only one wild impulse to rush away—surely you can understand—" she paused.
"Go on, sweetheart," he commanded, "I shall not let you off one detail. I love to make you tell me every single thing"—and he took her hand and played with her wedding ring, but not taking it off, while Sabine thrilled with happiness.
"Well—you did not wake—and so presently I got into the sitting-room, and at last found the certificate—and just as I was going out of the door on to the balcony I heard you call my name sleepily—and for one second I nearly went back—but I did not, and got safely away and to the hotel!"
"Think of my not waking!" Michael exclaimed. "If only I had—you would never have been allowed to go—it is maddening to remember what that sleep cost—but how did you manage at the hotel?"
"It was after five o'clock and the side door was open into the yard. Not a soul saw me, and I carried out my original plan. I think when I was in the train Ihad already begun to regret bitterly, but it was too late to go back—and then next day your letter came to me at Mr. Parsons' and all my pride was up in arms!"
Here Michael held her very tight.
"Oh, what a brute I was to write that letter," he cried.
"All I wanted then was to go away and forget all about you and everything and have lots of nice clothes and join my friend Moravia in Paris. You see, I was still just a silly ignorant child. Mr. Parsons got me a good maid who is with me still, and he agreed at last to my taking the name of Howard—I thought if I kept the Arranstoun everyone would know."
"But what did you intend to do, darling, with your life. We were both crazy, of course, you to go—and I to let you."
"I had no concrete idea. Just to see the world and buy what I wanted, and sit up late—and not have to obey any rules, I think—and underneath there was a great excitement all the time in the thought of looking perfectly splendid in being a grand grown-up lady when you came back—for of course I believed then that we must meet again."
"Well, what changed all that and made you become engaged to Henry, you wicked little thing!" and Michael kissed her fondly—"Was it because I did not come back?—but you could have cabled to me at any time."
An enchanting confusion crept over Sabine—she hesitated—she began to speak, then stopped and finally buried her face in his coat.
"What is it, darling?" he asked with almost a tone of anxiety in his voice. "Did you have some violent flirtation with someone at this stage? and you think I shall be annoyed—but indeed I shall not, because I do fully realize that whatever you did was my fault for leaving you alone—Tell me, Sabine, you sweet child."
"No—it wasn't that——"
"Well—then?"
"Well—then I was—terrified—it was my old maid, Simone, who told me what had happened—I was still too ignorant to understand things."
"Told you what? What wretched story did the old woman invent about me?" Michael's eyes were haughty—that she could listen to stories from a maid!
Sabine clasped her hands together—she was deeply moved.
"Oh, Michael—you are stupid! How can I possibly tell you—if you won't understand."
Then she jumped up suddenly and swiftly brought her blue-despatch box from beside her writing-table and unlocked it with her bracelet key—while Michael with an anxious, puzzled face watched her intently. She sat down again beside him when she had found what she sought—the closed blue leather case which she had looked at so many times.
"If you are going to show me some brute's photograph I simply refuse to look," Michael said. "All that part of your life is over and we are going to begin afresh, darling one, no matter what you did."
But she crept nearer to him as she opened the case—and her voice was full and sweet, shy tenderness as she blurted out:
"It is not a brute's photograph, Michael, it is the picture of your own little son."
"My God!" cried Michael, the sudden violent emotion making him very pale. "Sabine—how dared you keep this from me all these years—I—" Then he seized her in his arms and for a few seconds they could neither of them speak—his caresses were so fierce. At last he exclaimed brokenly, "Sabine—with the knowledge of this between us how could you ever have even contemplated belonging to another man—Oh! if I had only known. Where is—my son?"
"You must listen, Michael, to everything," Sabine whispered, "then you will understand—I was simply terrified when I realized at last, and only wanted to go back to you and be comforted, so I wrote a letter at once to tell you, and as Mr. Parsons was in England again I sent it to him to have it put safely into your hands. But by then you had gone right off to China, and Mr. Parsons sent the letter back to me, it was useless to forward it to you, he said, you might not get it for a year."
Michael strained her to his heart once more, while his eyes grew wet.
"Oh, my poor little girl—all alone, how frightfully cruel it was, no wonder you hated me then, and could not forgive me even afterward."
"I did not hate you—I was only terrified and longing to rush off somewhere and hide—so Simone suggested San Francisco—the furthest off she knew, and we hurried over there and then I was awfully ill, and when my baby was born I very nearly died."
Michael was wordless, he could only kiss her. "That is what made him so delicate—my wretchedness and rushing about," she went on, "and so I was punished because, after three months, God took him back again—my dear little one—just when I was beginning to grow comforted and to love him. He was exactly like you, Michael, with the same blue eyes, and I thought—I thought, we should go back to Arranstoun and finish our estrangements and be happy again—the three of us—when you did come home—I grew radiant and quite well—" Here two big tears gathered in her violet eyes and fell upon Michael's hand, and he shivered with the intensity of his feelings as he held her close.
"We had made our plans to go East—but my little sweetheart caught cold somehow—and then he died—Oh! I can't tell you the grief of it, Michael, I was quite reckless after that—it was in June and I did not care what happened to me for a long while. I justwanted to get back to Moravia, not knowing she had left Paris for Rome—and then I crossed in July—and came here to Brittany and saw and bought Héronac as I told you before. I heard then that you had not returned from China or made any sign—and it seemed all so cruel and ruthless, and as there were no longer any ties between us I thought that I would crush you from my life and forget you, and that I would educate myself and make something of my mind."
"Oh, my dear, my dear little girl," Michael sighed. "If you knew how all this is cutting me to the heart to think of the awful brute I have been—to think of you bearing things all alone—I somehow never realized the possibility of this happening—but once or twice when it did cross my mind I thought of course you would have cabled to me if so—I am simply appalled now at the casual selfishness of my behavior—can you ever forgive me, Sabine?"
She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, now soft and glistening with tears.
"Of course I can forgive you, Michael—I belong to you, you see——"
So when he had kissed her enough in gratitude and contrition he besought her to go on.
"The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you—and my life grew so peaceful with the Père Anselme and Madame Imogen here at Héronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies keptdeveloping for me. I seemed to grow up and realize things and the memory of you grew less and less—but society never held out any attractions for me—only to be with Moravia. I had taken almost a loathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory, not a single one attracted me in the least degree—until this summer at Carlsbad when we met Henry. And he appeared so good and true and kind—and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guiding hand to greatness of purpose in life—I liked him—but I must tell you the truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am," here she held tightly to Michael's hand—"I do not think I would ever have promised him at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in the paper that you were at Ostende—with Daisy Van der Horn. That exasperated me—even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent to you after five years. I had never seen your name in the paper before, it was the first indication I had had that you had come home—and the whole thing wounded my pride. I felt that I must ask for my freedom from you before you possibly could ask for yours from me. So I told Henry that very night that I had made up my mind."
"Oh! you dear little goose," Michael interrupted. "Not one of those ladies mattered to me more than the other—they were merely to pass the time of day, of no importance whatever."
"I dare say—but I am telling you my story, Michael—Well, Henry was so wonderful, so good—and it got so that he seemed to mean everything fine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less and less to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite—except for the irritation I felt about Daisy—and then by that extraordinary turn of fate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the name of the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurried postscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one—I saw you both arrive from the lodge, and when I heard the tones of your voice—Ah! well, you can imagine what it meant!"
"No, I want to know, little darling—what did it mean?" and Michael looked into her eyes with fond command.
"It made my heart beat and my knees tremble and a strange thrill came over me—I ought to have known then that to feel like that did not mean indifference—oughtn't I?"
"I expect so—but what a moment it was when we did meet, you must come to that!"
"Arrogant, darling creature you are, Michael! You love to make me recount all these things," and Sabine looked so sweetly mutinous that he could not remain tranquilly listening for the moment, but had to make passionate love to her—whispering every sort of endearment into her little ear—though presently she continued the recital of her story again:
"I stood there in the lodge after the shock of seeing you had passed, and I began to burn with every sort of resentment against you—I had had all the suffering and you had gone free—and I just felt I wanted to punish you by pretending not to know you! Think of it! How small—and yet there underneath I felt your old horribly powerful charm!"
"Oh, you did, did you! You darling," Michael exclaimed—and what do you suppose I felt—if we had only rushed there and then into each other's arms!"
"I was quite prepared for you in the garden—and did not I play my part well! You got quite white, you know with surprise—and I felt exquisitely excited. I could see you had come in all innocence—having probably forgotten our joking arrangement that I should call myself Mrs. Howard—I could not think why you did not speak out and denounce me. It hurt my pride, I thought it was because you wanted to divorce me and marry Daisy that you were indifferent about it. I did not know it was because you had given your word of honor to Henry not to interfere with the woman he loved. Then after dinner Henry told me you knew that he and I were practically engaged—that stung me deeply—it seemed to prove your indifference—so things developed and we met in the garden—Michael, was not that a wonderful hour! How we both acted. If youhad indicated by word or look that you remembered me, I could not have kept it up, we should have had to tell Henry then—we were playing at cross-purposes and my pride was wounded."
"I understand, sweetheart, go on."
"Well, I was miserable at luncheon, and then when you went out in the boat—being with you was like some intoxicating drink—I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. I was horrid toward Henry, I would not own it to myself, but I felt him to be the stumbling block in the way. So I was extra nice to him to convince myself—and I let him hold my arm, which I had never done before and you saw that in the garden. I suppose—and thought I loved him and so went—that was nice of you, Michael—but stupid, wasn't it!"
"Ridiculously stupid, everything I did was stupid that separated you from me. The natural action of my character would have been just to seize you again and carry you off resisting or unresisting to Arranstoun, but some idiotic sentiment of honor to Henry held me."
"I cried a little, I believe, when I got your note—I went up into this room and opened this despatch-box and read your horrid letter again—and I believe I looked into the blue leather case, too"—here she opened it once more—and they both examined it tenderly. "Of course you can't see anything much in this little photograph—but he really was so like you, Michael, andwhen I looked at it again after seeing you, I could have sobbed aloud, I wanted you so——"
"My dear, dear, little girl——"
"Henry had told me casually that afternoon your story, and how he had not stayed at Arranstoun for the wedding because he thought your action so unfair to the bride!—and how that now you felt rather a dog in the manger about her. That infuriated me! Can't you understand I had only one desire, to show you that I did not care since you had gone off. Henry was simply angelic to me—and asked me so seriously if he could really make me happy, if not he would release me then. I felt if he would take me, all bruised and restless, and comfort me and bring me peace, I did indeed wish to be his wife—and if nothing more had happened we might have grown quite happy from then, but we went to England—and I saw you again—and—Oh! well, Michael, need I tell you any more? You know how we fenced and how at last we could not bear it—up in Mrs. Forster's room!"
"It was the most delirious and most unhappy moment of my life, darling."
"And now it is all over—isn't Henry a splendid man? I told him all this yesterday—the Père Anselme had suggested to him to come and ask me for the truth. He behaved too nobly—but I did not know what he intended to do, nor if it were too late to stop the divorce or anything, so I was miserable."
"You shall not be so any more—we will go back to Arranstoun at once, darling, and begin a new and glorious life together. From every point of view that is the best thing to be done. We could not possibly go on all staying here, it would be grotesque—and I am quite determined that I will never leave you again—do you hear, Sabine?" And he turned her face and made her look into his eyes.
"Yes, I hear!—and know that you were always the most masterful creature!"
"Do you want to change me?"
But Sabine let herself be clasped in his arms while she abandoned herself to the deep passionate joy she felt.
"No—Michael—I would not alter you in one little bit, we are neither of us very good or very clever, but I just love you and you love me—and we are mates! There!"
They carried out their plans and arrived at Arranstoun Castle a few days later. Michael wired to have everything ready for their reception and both experienced the most profound emotion when first they entered Michael's sitting-room again.