Then he spoke almost fiercely:

"I cannot try to guess what caused you to pretend you did not recognize me when we met at Heronac. That first false step has created all this hopeless tangle. I will not judge you, but only blame my own weakness in falling in with your plan." He clasped his hands together rather wildly. "I was so stunned with surprise to see you, and overcome with the knowledge that I had just given Henry my word of honor that I would not interfere with him, or make love to the lady we were going to see—a Mrs. Howard, who was married to a ruffian of an American husband shut up in a madhouse or home for inebriates! My God! Lies from the very beginning," and he gave a little laugh. "I had forgotten for the moment that you had said you would call yourself by that name, but I remembered it afterwards. You had not decided if you would be a widow—do you recollect?—and you wanted a coronet for your handkerchiefs and note-paper!"

Sabine quivered under the lash of his scorn.

"You maddened me that afternoon and at dinner, too," he went on, "and I made resolutions and then broke them. But each time I did, I was filled with remorse and contrition about Henry—and I am ashamed to confess it, I was madly jealous, too. At last, I saw you in the garden together and knew I ought to go at once."

Here his voice broke a little, and he unclasped his hands. She raised her head defiantly now, and flashed back at him:

"I understand you had admitted to being a dog in the manger—you were always an animal of sorts!"

This told, he grew paler, and into his blue eyes there came a look of pain.

"You have a perfect right to say that to me if you choose; it is probably true. I am a very strong man with tremendous passions which have always been in my race; but I am not altogether a brute—because, although I want you myself with more intensity than I have ever wanted anything in my life—I am going to give you up to Henry. I have been through hell—ever since I came from France. I have been weak, too, and could not face the final wrench—but I am determined at last to do what is straight, and to-morrow I will instruct my lawyers to begin proceedings, and I suppose in two months or less you will be free."

Sabine grew white and cold—her voice was hardly audible as she asked, looking up at him:

"What made you come here to-night?"

He took a step nearer to her, while he reclasped his hands, as though he feared that he might be tempted to touch her.

"I came—because I wanted to see you so that I could not stay away—I came because I wished to convince myself again that you loved Henry, so that there could be no shadow of uncertainty in what I intended to do."

"Well?"

"I saw that, whether you love him or not, you desire that I shall think that you do—and so at dinner I played for my own pleasure, the die being cast, for something else had occurred before dinner which makes it of no consequence to my decision whether you do or do not love him now. It is Henry's great love for you which is the factor, because to part from you he says would end his life. I could not commit the frightful cruelty and dishonor of upsetting his plans, since you are originally to blame for concealing the truth from him, and I am to blame for abetting you. He trusts us both as you said."

Sabine was trembling; her whole fabric of peace and happiness in the future seemed to be falling to pieces like a pack of cards.

She could only look at Michael with piteous violet eyes out of which all the defiance had gone. Her slender figure swayed a little, and she leaned against the mantelpiece.

"My God!" he said, with a fresh clenching of his strong hands, "I would not have believed I could have suffered so. As it is the last time we shall ever talk to one another perhaps—I want you to know about things—to hear it all. I would like to ask you again to forgive me for long ago, but I suppose you feel that is past forgiveness?" His face had a look of pleading; then he went on as she did not respond. "If you had not left me, I would soon have made you forget that you had been angry, as I thought indeed I had already done when you seemed to be contented at least in my arms. But I would have caressed you into complete forgetfulness in time—" here his voice vibrated with a deep note of tenderness, which thrilled her—but yet she could not speak.

"And what had begun just in mad passion would have grown into real love between us—for we were made for one another Sabine—did you never think of that?—just the same sort of natures—vigorous and all alive and passionate, with the same joy of life in our blood. We would have been supremely happy. But I was so frightfully arrogant in those days, and when I spoke I was deadly ashamed of myself, and then furious with you for daring to defy me and going after all. No one had ever disobeyed me. But it was shame really which made me agree to join Latimer Berkeley's expedition at once—the letter came by the early post. I wanted to get right away and try to forget what I had done—and since you had expressed your will, I just left you to stand by it." He leaned upon the mantelpiece now and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, how wrong I was! Because you were so young I should have known that you could not judge—and perhaps acted hastily in that sort of reaction which always comes to one after passion—and I should have followed you and brought you back."

His tones shook with anguish now. "Well, I am punished—and so all that is left for us to do is to say good-bye, my dear, and let us each go our ways. You, at least, are not suffering as I am—because you do not care."

A little sob came in Sabine's throat, and she could not reply. She could only take in the splendor of his figure and his grace as he leaned there with dark bent head. And so, in a silence that seemed to throb and thrill, they stood near together for a few moments with hearts at breaking point.

Then he controlled himself; he must go at once or he could no longer answer for what he might do. She looked so sweet and sorrowful standing close to his side, her violet eyes lowered so that their long lashes made a shadow upon her dimpled cheek.

Intense magnetic attraction drew them nearer and nearer.

"Sabine!" he cried at last, hoarsely, as though the words were torn from his tortured heart. "There is something about you which tells me that you do not love Henry—that he has never made you feel—as I once made you feel, and could make you feel again." He stretched out his arms in pain. "The temptation is frightful—terrible—just to kiss you once more—Darling—Oh! I cannot bear it. I must go!" and he took a step away from her.

But the Moment for Sabine had come; she could resist its force no more, every nerve in her whole body was quivering—every unknown, though half-guessed emotion was stirring her soul. Her whole being seemed to be convulsed in one concentrated desire. The reality had materialized the echoes she had often dimly felt from that night of long ago.

The wild passion which she had feared, and only that very evening had repudiated as being an impossible experience for her, had now overtaken her, and she could struggle no more.

"Michael!" she whispered breathlessly, and held out her arms.

With a cry of joy he clasped her to him in a fierce ecstasy. All the pent-up feelings in both their souls let loose at last.

It was a moment which caused time and place and all other things to be forgotten in a glory as great as though eternity had come.

"My darling, my darling!" he murmured, kissing her hair and brow and eyelids. "Oh! the hideous cruelty that it is all too late and this must be good-bye."

But Sabine clung to him half sobbing, telling him she could not bear it; he must not leave her now. And so they stood clasped together, trembling with love and misery.

"Darling," at last he besought her, while he unclasped her tender hands from round his neck. "Darling, do not tempt me—it is frightful pain, but I must keep my word. You had reason once to think that I was an uncontrollable brute, but you shall not be able to do so any more. I would never respect myself—or you—again if I let you make me faithless to Henry now. It is cruel sorrow, but we cannot think of ourselves; you know, we used too lightly for our own ends what should have been an awfully sacred tie. Do you remember, Sabine, we swore to God to love and be faithful forever—not meaning a word we said—and now we are punished—" A great sob shook his deep voice.

"Darling child—I love you madly, madly, Sabine—dear little one—but you and I are just driftwood, floating down the tide—not like Henry, who is a splendid fellow of great use to England. It is impossible that his whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness. Darling—" and he paused and drew her to him again fondly. "It is our own fault. We have let the situation develop through indecision and, I expect, wounded vanity and weakness—and now we must have strength to abide by our words. Henry isn't young like we are, you see. I honestly believe it would knock him right out if anything went wrong."

But Sabine clung to him still. She could think of nothing but that she loved him, and that he was her mate and her husband, and why must she be torn from his side for the happiness of any other man.

She was in an agony of grief. And then suddenly back to her came the words of Pere Anselme, heavy as the stroke of doom. Yes, she had taken matters into her own hands and presumed to direct fate, and now all that she could do was to be true to herself and to her word. Michael was right; they must say good-bye. Henry must not be sacrificed.

She raised her pitiful face from his breast where it was buried, and he framed it in both his hands, and it would have been difficult to recognize his bold eyes, so filled were they with tenderness and love.

"Sabine," he commanded, fondly, "tell me that, after all, you have forgiven me for making you stay that night. You know that we were perfectly happy at the end of it, and it will be such pain for me to have to remember all the rest of my life that you hold resentment. Darling, if only you had stayed! Oh! I would have cherished you and petted you," here he smoothed her hair, and murmured love words in her ear with his wonderful charm, until Sabine felt that neither heaven nor earth nor anything else mattered but only he.

"Sweetheart," he went on, "we have got to part in a moment, but I just must know if you love me a little in spite of everything. I must know, my darling little girl."

Then he held her to him again with immense tenderness, even in this moment of agonized parting exulting in the intoxication of love he saw that he had created in her eyes. There was no wile for the enslaving of a woman's heart that he was not master of. The question as to whether he ought to have employed them on this occasion is quite another matter, and not for our consideration! He was doing what he thought was the only honorable thing possible, giving up this glorious happiness, and he was merely a strong, passionate human being after all. They were going to part for the rest of their lives; he must make her tell him that she loved him, he wanted to hear her say the words.

"Sabine—little darling—answer me," he pleaded.

She flung her arms round his neck, her whole body vibrating with emotion.

"I love you absolutely, Michael," she cried, "and I have always forgiven you—I was mad to leave you, and I have longed often to go back. Oh! I would sooner be dead than not to be your wife."

They both were white now, the misery was so great. He knew he must go at once, or he could never go at all. They were too racked with present suffering to think what the future could contain, or of the growing agony of the long weary days and how they could ever bear them.

"My God, this is past endurance!" Michael exclaimed frantically. And after a wild embrace, he almost flung her from him. Then, as she staggered to a sofa she heard the door close, and knew that chapter of her life was done.

She sat there for a while gazing into the fire, too stunned with misery even to think; but presently everything came to her with merciless clearness. How small she had been all along! Instead of waiting until she heard the truth, she had let a wretched paragraph in a newspaper inflame her wounded vanity, so that she gave her promise to Henry there and then—putting the rope round her neck with her own hands. And afterwards, instead of being brave and true, wounded vanity again had caused her to tighten the knot. She remembered Henry's words when he had implored her to tell him what were the actual wishes of her heart—and how she had cut off all retreat by her answer. She remembered all his goodness to her and how she had accepted it as her due, making him care for her more and more as each day came.

"I have been a hopeless coward," she moaned, "a paltry, vain, hopeless coward. I should have owned Michael was my husband immediately. Henry could have got over it then, and now we might be happy—but it is too late; there is nothing to be done——!"

Then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly. "Oh, my love, my love—and I did not even now tell you all."

The clock struck one—supper would be beginning and she must go down. If Michael could bear this agony and behave like a gentleman, she also must play her part with dignity. Henry would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

She went rapidly to her room and removed all traces of emotion, and then she returned to the hall by the way she had come.

"I was growing quite anxious, dearest," Lord Fordyce told her, as he advanced to meet her when she came down the stairs. "I feared you were ill, and was just coming to find you. Let us go straight in to supper now—you look rather pale. I must take care of you and give you some champagne," and he placed her hand in his arm fondly and led her along.



They found chairs which had been kept for them at a centre table, near their hostess and Moravia, and here they sat down. Michael was nowhere in sight, but presently he came in with one of the house-party, and Mrs. Forster beckoned them to her—and thus it happened that he was again at Sabine's side. His eyes had a reckless, stony stare in them, and he confined his conversation to the lady he had taken in. And Henry, who was watching him, whispered to Sabine:

"He is often in some scrape, Michael—something must have culminated to-night. I have never seen him looking so haggard and pale."

Sabine drank down her glass of champagne; she thought she could no longer support the situation. She almost felt she hated Henry and his devotion,—it was paralyzing her, suffocating her—crushing her life. Michael never spoke to her—beyond a casual word—and at length they all went back to the ball-room, where an extra was being played—Michael, for a moment, standing by her side. Then a sudden madness came to them as their eyes met, and he held out his arm.

"This is my dance, I think, Mrs. Howard," he said with careless sangfroid, and he whirled her away into the middle of the room. They both were perfect dancers and never stopped in their wild career until the music ended. It was a two-step, and all the young people clapped for the band to go on. So once more they started with the throng. They had not spoken a single word; it was a strange comfort to them just to be together—half anguish, half bliss—but as the last bars died away, Michael whispered in her ear:

"I am going to say good-night to Rose. She is accustomed to my ways. I have ordered my motor, and I am going home to-night—I cannot bear it another single minute. If I stayed until to-morrow I should break my word. I love you to absolute distraction—Good-bye," and without waiting for her to answer he left her close to Henry and turning was lost in the crowd.

Suddenly the whole room reeled to Sabine, the lights danced in her eyes, and a rushing sound came in her ears. She would have fallen forward only Lord Fordyce caught her arm, while he cried, in solicitous consternation:

"My dearest, you have danced too much. You feel faint—let me take you out of all this into the cool."

But Sabine pulled herself together and assured him she was all right—she had been giddy for a moment—he need not distress himself; and as they walked into the conservatory she protested vehemently that she had never been at so delightful a ball.



CHAPTER XVIII

A sobbing wind and a weeping rain beat round the walls of Arranstoun, and the great gray turrets and towers made a grim picture against the November sky, darkening toward late afternoon, as its master came through the postern gate and across the lawn to his private rooms. He had been tramping the moorland beyond the park without Binko or a gun, his thoughts too tempestuous to bear with even them. For the letter to Messrs. McDonald and Malden had gone, and the first act of the tragedy of his freedom had been begun.

It was a colossal price to pay for honor and friendship, but while they had been brigands and robbers for hundreds of years, the Arranstouns had not been dishonorable men, and had once or twice in their history done a great and generous thing.

Michael was not of the character which lauded itself, indeed he was never introspective nor thought of himself at all. He was just strong and living and breathing, his actions governed by an inherited sense of the fitness of things for a gentleman's code, which, unless it was swamped, as on one occasion it had been by violent passion, very seldom led him wrong.

Now he determined never to look ahead or picture the blankness of his days as they must become with no hope of ever seeing Sabine. He supposed vaguely that the pain would grow less in time. He should have to play a lot of games, and take tremendous interest in his tenants and his property and perhaps presently go into Parliament. And if all that failed, he could make some expedition into the wilds again. He was too healthy and well-balanced to have even in this moment of deep suffering any morbid ideas.

When he had changed his soaking garments, he came back into his sitting-room and pulled Binko upon his knees. The dog and his fat wrinkles seemed some kind of comfort to him.

"She remembered you, Binko, old man," he said, caressing the creature's ears. "She is the sweetest little darling in all the world. You would have loved her soft brown hair and her round dimpled cheek. And she loves your master, Binko, just as he loves her; she has forgiven him for everything of long ago—and if she could, she would come back here, and live with us and make us divinely happy—as we believed she was going to do once when we were young."

And then he thought suddenly of Henry's home—the stately Elizabethan house amidst luxuriant, peaceful scenery—not grim and strong like Arranstoun—though she preferred gaunt castles, evidently, since she had bought Heronac for her own. But the thought of Henry's home and her adorning it brought too intimate pictures to his imagination; they galled him so that at last he could not bear it and started to his feet.

It was possible to part from her and go away, but it was not possible to contemplate calmly the fact of her being the wife of another man. Material things came always more vividly to Michael than spiritual ones, and the vision he had conjured up was one of Sabine encircled by Henry's arms. This was unbearable—and before he was aware of it he found he was clenching his fists in rage, and that Binko was sitting on his haunches, blinking at him, with his head on one side in his endeavors to understand.

Michael pulled himself together and laughed bitterly aloud.

"I must just never think of it, old man," he told the dog, "or I shall go mad."

Then he sat down again. With what poignant regret he looked back upon his original going to China! If only he had stayed and gone after her, that next day, and seized her again, and brought her back here to this room—they would have had five years of happiness. She was sweeter now far than she had been then, and he could have watched her developing, instead of her coming to perfection all alone. That under these circumstances she might never have acquired that polish of mind, and strange dignity and reserve of manner which was one of her greatest attractions, did not strike him—as it has been plainly said, he was not given to analysis in his judgment of things.

"I wish she had had a baby, Binko," he remarked, when once more seated in his chair. "Then she would have been obliged to return at once of her own accord."

Binko grunted and slobbered his acquiescence and sympathy, with his wise old fat head poked into his master's arm.

"You are trying to tell me that as I had gone off to China, she couldn't have done that in any case, you old scoundrel. And of course you are right. But she did not try to, you know. There was no letter from her among the hundreds which were waiting for me at Hong Kong—or here when I got back. She could have sent me a cable, and I would have returned like a shot from anywhere. But she did not want me then; she wanted to be free—and now, when she does, her hands are already tied. The whole cursed thing is her own fault, and that is what is the biggest pain, old dog."

Then his thoughts wandered back to their scene in Rose Forster's sitting-room—that was pleasure indeed! And he leaned back in his big chair and let himself dream. He could hear her words telling him that she loved him and could feel her soft lips pressed in passion to his own.

"My God! I can't bear it," he cried at last, once more clenching his hands.

* * * * *

And so it went on through days and nights of anguish, the aspects of the case repeating themselves in endless persistence, until with all his will and his strong health and love of sport and vigorous work, the agony of desire for Sabine grew into an obsession.

Whatever sins he had committed in his life, indeed his punishment had come.

Sabine, for her part, found the days not worth living. Nothing in life or nature stays at a standstill; if stagnation sets in, then death comes—and so it was that her emotions for Michael did not remain the same, but grew and augmented more and more as the certainty that they were parted for ever forced itself upon her brain.

They had not been back in London a day when Mr. Parsons announced to her that at last all was going well. Mr. Arranstoun had put the matter in train and soon she would be free. And, shrewd American that he was, he wondered why she should get so pale. The news did not appear to be such a very great pleasure to her after all! Her greatest concern seemed to be that he should arrange that there should be no notice of anything in the papers.

"I particularly do not wish Lord Fordyce ever to know that my name was Arranstoun," she said. "I will pay anything if it is necessary to stop reports—and if such things are possible to do in this country?"

But Mr. Parsons could hold out no really encouraging hopes of this. No details would probably be known, but that Michael Arranstoun had married a Sabine Delburg and now divorced her would certainly be announced in the Scotch journals, where the Arranstouns and their Castle were of such interest to the public.

"If only I had been called Mary Smith!" Sabine almost moaned. "If Lord Fordyce sees this he must realize that, although he knows me as Sabine Howard, I was probably Sabine Delburg."

"I should think you had better inform his lordship yourself at once. There is no disgrace in the matter. Arranstoun is a very splendid name," Mr. Parsons ventured to remind her.

But Sabine shut her firm mouth. Not until it became absolutely necessary would she do this thing.

Henry's company now had no longer power to soothe her; she found herself crushing down sudden inclinations to be capricious to him or even unkind—and then she would feel full of remorse and regret when she saw the pain in his fond eyes. She was thankful that they were returning to Paris, and then she meant to go straight to Heronac, telling him he must see her no more until she was free. It was the month of the greatest storms there; it would suit her exactly and it was her very own. She need not act for only Madame Imogen and Pere Anselme. But when she thought of this latter a sensation of discomfort came. How could she read in peace with the dear old man, who was so keen and so subtle he would certainly divine that all was not well? And ever his sentence recurred to her: "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 that He will let circumstance draw us into rough waters." And then, that as she had taken the helm she must abide by her word. Bitterness and regret were her portion—in a far greater degree than after that other crisis of her life, when its realities had come to her, and she knew she must bear them alone. She had been too young then to understand half the possibilities of mental pain, and also there was no finality about anything—all might develop into sunshine again. Now she had the most cruel torture of all, the knowledge that she herself by her wilfulness and pride had pulled down the blinds and brought herself into darkness, and that there was not anything to be done.

Nothing could have been more unhappy than was the state of these two young people in their separate homes. In the old days when she used to try and banish the too lenient thoughts of Michael, she had always the picture of his selfishness and violent passion to call up to her aid—but that was blotted out now, and in its place there was the memory that it was he, not she, who had behaved nobly and decided to sacrifice all happiness to be true to his friend. Sometimes when she first got back to Heronac she, too, allowed herself to dream of their good-bye, and the cruel sweetness of that brief moment of bliss, and she would go through strange thrills and quivers and stretch out her arms in the firelight and whisper his name aloud—"Michael—my dear love!"

She could not even bear the watching, affectionate eyes of Madame Imogen and sent her to Paris on a month's holiday. The Pere Anselme had been away when she arrived, at the deathbed of an old sister at Versailles, so she was utterly alone in her grim castle, with only the waves.

The once looked-for letters from Henry were a dreaded tie now. She would have to answer them!—and as his grew more tender and loving, so hers unconsciously became more cold, with a note of bitterness in them sometimes of which she was unaware.

And Henry, in Paris with Moravia, wondered and grieved, and grew sick at heart as the days went on. He had let his political ambitions slide, and lingered there as being nearer his adored one, instead of going home.

Now love was playing his sad pranks with all of them, and the Princess Torniloni was receiving her share. The constant companionship of Henry had not made her feelings more calm. She was really in love with him with all that was best and greatest in her sweet nature, and it was changing her every idea. She was even getting a little vicarious happiness out of being a sympathetic friend, and as he grew sad and restless, so she became more gentle and tender, and watched over him like a fond mother with a child. She would not look ahead or face the fact that he had grown too dear; she was living her Indian summer, she told herself, and would not see its end.

"How awfully good you are to me, Princess," he told her one afternoon, as they walked together in the bright frosty air about a week after Sabine had left them. "I never have known so kind a woman. You seem to think of gentle and sympathetic things to say before one even asks for your sympathy. How greatly I misjudged your nation before I knew you and Sabine!"

"No, I don't think you did misjudge us in general," she replied. "Lots of us are horrid when we are on the make, and those are the sorts you generally meet in England. We would not go there, you see, if it was not to get something. We can have everything material as good, if not better, in our own country, only we can't get your repose, or your atmosphere, and we are growing so much cleverer and richer every year that we hate to think there is something we can't buy, and so we come over to England and set to work to grab it from you!"

"How delightful you are!"

"I am only echoing Sabine, who has all the quaint ideas. In that pretty young baby's head she thinks out evolution, and cause and effect, and heredity, and every sort of deep tiresome thing!"

"Have you heard from her to-day, Princess?" Henry's voice was a little anxious. She had not written to him.

"Yes."

"She seems to be in rather a queer mood. What has caused it, do you know, dear friend?"

"I have not the slightest idea—it has puzzled me, too," and Moravia's voice was perplexed. "Ever since the ball at your sister's she has been changed in some way. Had you any quarrel or—jar, or difference of opinion? Don't think I am asking from curiosity—I am really concerned."

Henry's distinguished face grew pinched-looking; it cut like a knife to have his vague unadmitted fears put into words.

"We had no discussions of any kind. She was particularly sweet, and spent nearly the whole evening with me, as you know. Is it something about her husband, do you think, which is troubling her? But it cannot be that, because in her letter of two days ago she said the proceedings had been started and she would be free perhaps by Christmastime, as all was being hurried through."

Moravia gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Sabine is certainly very strange. Can you believe it? She has never mentioned the matter to me since we returned, and once when I spoke of it, she put the subject aside. She did not 'wish to remember it,' she said."

"It is evidently that, then, and we must have patience with the dear little girl. The husband must have been an unmitigated wretch to have left such a deep scar upon her life."

"But she never saw him from the day after she was married!" Moravia exclaimed; and then pulled herself up short, glancing at Henry furtively. What had Sabine told him? Probably no more than she had told her—she felt the subject was dangerous ground, and it would be wiser to avoid further discussion upon the matter. So she remarked casually:

"No, after all, I do not believe it has anything to do with the husband; it is just a mood. She has always had moods for years. I know she is looking forward awfully to our all going to her for Christmas. Then you will be able to clear away all your clouds."

But this conversation left Henry very troubled, and Pere Anselme's words about the cinders still being red kept recurring to him with increasing pain.

Sabine had been at Heronac for ten days when the old priest got back to his flock. It was toward the end of November, and the weather was one raging storm of rain and wind. The surf boiled round the base of the Castle and the waves rose as giant foes ready to attack. It comforted the mistress of it to stand upon the causeway bridge and get soaking wet—or to sit in one of the mullioned windows of her great sitting-room and watch the angry water thundering beneath. And here the Pere Anselme found her on the morning after his return.

She rose quickly in gladness to meet him, and they sat down together again.

She spoke her sympathy for this bereavement which had caused his absence, but he said with grave peace:

"She is well, my sister—a martyr in life, she has paid her debt. I have no grief."

So they talked about the garden, and of the fisher-folk, and their winter needs. There had been a wreck of a fishing boat, and a wife and children would be hungry but for the kindness of their Dame d'Heronac.

Then there was a pause—not one of those calm, happy pauses of other days, when each one dreamed, but a pause wrought with unease. The Cure's old black eyes had a questioning expression, and then he asked:

"And what is it, my daughter? Your heart is not at rest."

But Sabine could not answer him. Her long-controlled anguish won the day and, as once before, she burst into a passion of tears.

The Pere Anselme did not seek to comfort her; he knew women well—she would be calmer presently, and would tell him what her sorrow was. He only murmured some words in Latin and looked out on the sea.

Presently the sobs ceased and the Dame d'Heronac rose quickly and left the room; and when she had mastered her emotion, she came back again.

"My father," she said, sitting on a low stool at his knees, "I have been very foolish and very wicked—but I cannot talk about it. Let us begin to read."



CHAPTER XIX

Meanwhile the divorce affair went on apace. There was no defence, of course, and Michael's lawyers were clever and his own influence was great. So freedom would come before the end of term probably, if not early in the New Year, and Henry felt he might begin to ask his beloved one to name a date when he could call her his own, and endeavor to take every shadow from her life.

His letters all this month had been more than extra tender and devoted, each one showing that his whole desire was only for Sabine's welfare, and each one, as she read it, put a fresh stab into her heart and seemed like an extra fetter in the chain binding her to him.

She knew she was really the mainspring of his life and she could not, did not, dare to face what might be the consequence of her parting from him. Besides, the die was cast and she must have the courage to go through with it.

Mr. Parsons had let her know definitely that the bare fact of her name would appear in the papers, and nothing more; and at first the thought came to her that if it had made no impression upon Henry's memory, when he must have read it originally in the notice of the marriage, why should it strike him now? But this was too slender a thread to hang hope upon, and it would be wiser and better for them all if when Lord Fordyce came with Moravia and Girolamo and Mr. Cloudwater at Christmas, she told him the whole truth. The dread of this augmented day by day, until it became a nightmare and she had to use the whole force of her will to keep even an outward semblance of calm.

Thoughts of Michael she dismissed as well as she could, but she had passionate longings to go and take out the blue enamel locket from her despatch-box and look at it once more; she would not permit herself to indulge in this weakness, though. Her whole days were ruled with sternest discipline until she became quite thin, and the Pere Anselme grew worried about her.

A fortnight went by; it was growing near to Christmastime—but the atmosphere of Heronac contained no peace, and one bleak afternoon the old priest paced the long walk in the garden with knitted brows. He did not feel altogether sure as to what was his duty. He was always on the side of leaving things in the hand of the good God, but it might be that he would be selected to be an instrument of fate, since he seemed the only detached person with any authority in the affair.

His Dame d'Heronac had tried hard to be natural and her old self, he could see that, but her taste in their reading had been over much directed to Heine, she having brought French translations of this poet's works back with her from Paris.

Twice also had she asked him to recite to her De Musset's "La Nuit de Decembre." He did not consider these as satisfactory symptoms. There was no question in his astute mind as to what was the general cause of his beloved lady's unrest. The change in her had begun to take place ever since the fatal visit of the two Englishmen. Herein lay matter for thought. For the very morning before their arrival she had been particularly bright and gay, telling him of her intended action in making arrangements to free herself from her empty marriage bonds, and apparently contemplating a new life with Lord Fordyce with satisfaction. Pere Anselme was a great student of Voltaire and looked upon his tale of "Zadig" as one from which much benefit could be derived. And now he began to put the method of this citizen of Babylon into practice, never having heard of the immortal Sherlock Holmes.

The end of his cogitations directed upon this principle brought him two concrete facts.

Number one: That Sabine had been deeply affected by the presence of the second Englishman—the handsome and vital young man—and number two: That she was now certainly regretting that she was going to obtain her divorce. Further use of Zadig's deductive method produced the conviction that, as an abstract young man would be equally out of reach were she still bound to her husband—or married to Lord Fordyce—and could only be obtained were she divorced—some other reason for her distaste and evident depression about this latter state coming to her must be looked for, and could only be found in the supposition that the Seigneur of Arranstoun might be himself her husband! Why, then, this mystery? Why had not he and she told the truth? Zadig's counsel could not help him to unravel this point, and he continued to pace the walk with impatient sighs.

He was even more of a gentleman than of a priest, and therefore forbore to question Sabine directly, but that afternoon, with the intention of directing her mind into facing eventualities, he had talked of Lord Fordyce, and what would be the duties of her future position as his wife. Sabine replied without enthusiasm in her tones, while her words gave a picture of all that any woman's heart could desire:

"He is a very fine character, it would seem," the Pere Anselme said. "And he loves you with a deep devotion."

Sabine clasped her hands suddenly, as though the thought gave her physical pain.

"He loves me too much, Father; no woman should be loved like that; it fills her with fear."

"Fear of what?"

"Fear of failing to come up to the standard of his ideal of her—fear of breaking his heart."

"I told him in the beginning it were wiser to be certain all cinders were cold before embarking upon fresh ties," Pere Anselme remarked meditatively, "and he assured me that he would ascertain facts, and whether or no you felt he could make you happy."

"And he did," Sabine's voice was strained. "And I told him that he could—if he would help me to forget—and I gave him my word and let him—kiss me, Father—so I am bound to him irrevocably, as you can see."

"It would seem so."

There was a pause, and then the priest got up and held his thin brown hands to the blaze, his eyes averted from her while he spoke.

"You must look to the end, my daughter, and ask yourself whether or no you will be strong enough to play your part in the years which are coming—since, from what I can judge, the embers are not yet cold. Temptation will arm for you with increasing strength. What then?"

"I do—not know," Sabine whispered hardly aloud.

"It will be necessary to be quite sure, my daughter, before you again make vows."

And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when he intended what he had said to sink deeply into the heart of his listener.

But just as he was leaving after tea he drew the heavy curtains back from one of the great windows. All was inky darkness, and the roaring of the sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like the menacing voices of an angry crowd.

"The good God can calm even this rough water," he said. "It would be well that you ask for guidance, my child, and when it has come to you, hesitate no more."

Then, making his sign of blessing, he rapidly strode to the door, leaving the Dame d'Heronac crouched upon the velvet window-seat, peering out upon the waves.

And Michael, numb with misery and regret, was deciding to go to Paris for Christmas. The memories at Arranstoun he could not endure.

The great suffering that he was going through was having some effect upon his mind, refining him in all ways, forcing him to think and to reason out all problems of life. The great dreams which used to come to him sometimes when in Kashmire during solitary hours of watching for sport returned. He would surely do something vast with his life—when this awful pain should be past. What, he could not decide—but something which would take him out of himself. He did not think he could stay in England just at first after Sabine should have married Henry—the chances of running across her would be too great, since they both knew the same people.

Henry would read about the divorce and the name "Sabine Delburg" in the paper, too, and would then know everything, even if Sabine had not already informed him. But he almost thought she must have done so, because he had had no word lately from his old friend. Thus the time went on for all of them, and none but the priest felt any premonition that Christmas would certainly bring a climax in all of their fates.

Lord Fordyce had hardly ever spent this season away from his mother, who was a very old lady now, and deeply devoted to him; but the imperative desire to be near his adored overcame any other feeling, and he, with the Princess and her son and father, was due to arrive at Heronac on the day before Christmas Eve.

He ran across Michael at the Ritz the night before he left Paris. They were both dining with parties, and nodded across the room, and then afterwards in the hall had a few words.

"To-morrow I am going down to Heronac, Michael," Henry said. "Where do you intend to spend the festive season? Here, I suppose?"

"Yes, it is as good as anywhere," Michael returned. "I felt I could not stand the whole thing at Arranstoun. I have been away from England so long, I must get used to these old anniversaries again gradually. Here one is free."

They looked into each other's faces and Henry noticed that Michael had not quite got his old exuberant expression of the vivid joy of life—he was paler and even a little haggard, if so splendid a creature could look that!

"I suppose he has been going the pace over here," Henry thought, and wondered why Michael's manner should be a little constrained. Then they shook hands with their usual cordiality and said good-night. And Michael prepared to go on to a supper party, with a feeling of wild rebellion in his heart. The sight of his old friend and the knowledge that he was on his way to join Sabine drove him almost mad again.

"I suppose they will be formally engaged in the New Year. I wonder how my little girl is bearing it—if she is half as miserable as I am, God comfort her," he cried to himself; and then he felt he could not stand Miss Daisy Van der Horn, and getting into his motor he told the chauffeur to drive into the Bois instead of to the supper.

Here among the dark trees he could think. It was all perfectly impossible, and no happiness could possibly come to Henry either—unless he succeeded in consoling Sabine when she should be his wife. And this was perhaps the bitterest thought of all—that she should ever be consoled as Henry's wife!

Then the extreme strangeness of Henry's still being in ignorance of his and Sabine's relations struck him. She had evidently not yet had the courage to tell the truth, and so the thing would come as a shock—and what would happen then? Who could say? In any case, Henry could not feel he had not come up to the scratch. Would Sabine ever tell Henry the whole story? He felt sure she would not. But how could things be expected to go on with the years? It was all unthinkable now that it had come so close.

It was about five o'clock on the next afternoon that the Princess and her party arrived at Heronac. Sabine was waiting for them in the great hall, and greeted them with feverish delight, but Henry's worshipping eyes took in at once the fact that she was greatly changed. She made a tremendous fuss over Girolamo, for whom a most sumptuous tea had been prepared in his own nurseries, and Henry thought how sweet she was with children and how divinely happy they would be in the future, when they had some of their own!

But what had altered his beloved? Her face had lost its baby outline, it seemed, and her violet eyes were full of deeper shadows than even they had been in the first few days of their acquaintance at Carlsbad. He must find all this out for himself directly they could be alone.

This chance, however, did not seem likely to be vouchsafed to him, for on the plea of having such heaps to talk over with Moravia, Sabine accompanied that lady to her room and did not appear again until they were all assembled in the big salon for dinner, where Madame Imogen, who had returned the day before, was doing her best to add to the gaiety of the party by her jolly remarks.

The lady of Heronac had hardly been able to control herself as she waited for her guests' arrival and felt that to rush at Girolamo would be her only hope. For that morning the post had brought the news that the divorce would be granted by the end of January, and she would be free! She had felt very faint as she had read Mr. Parsons' letter. No matter how one might be expecting an axe to fall, when it does, the shock must seem immense.

Sabine lay there and moaned in her bed. Then over her crept a fierce resentment against Henry. Why should she be sacrificed to him? He was forty years old, and had lived his life; and she was young, and had not yet really begun to enjoy her's. How would she be able to bear it; or to act even complaisance when every fiber of her being was turning in mad passion and desire to Michael, her love?

Then her sense of justice resumed its sway. Henry at least was not to blame—no one was to blame but her own self. And as she had proudly agreed with Michael that every one must come up to the scratch, she must fulfil her part. There was no use in being dramatic and deciding upon a certain course as being a noble and disinterested one, and then in not having the pluck to carry it through. She had prayed for guidance indeed, and no light had come, beyond the feeling that she must stick to her word.

The report of the case would be in the Scotch papers, and Michael Arranstoun being such a person of consequence it would probably be just announced in the English journals, too, and Henry would see it. She could delay no longer; he must be told the truth in the next few days.

The sight of his kind, distinguished face shining with love had unnerved her. She must tell him with all seeming indifference, and then close the scene as quickly as she could.

While Sabine and Moravia talked in the latter's room, Moravia was full of discomfort and anxiety. Her much loved friend appeared so strange. She seemed to speak feverishly, as it were, to be trying to keep the conversation upon the lightest subjects; and when Moravia asked her how the divorce was going, she put the question aside and said that they would speak of tiresome things like that when Christmas was over!

"But," explained the Princess, "I don't call it at all tiresome. It means your freedom, Sabine, and then you will be able to marry Henry. He absolutely worships the ground you tread on, and if anything had gone wrong, I think it would have simply killed him quite."

"Yes, I know," returned Sabine. "That thought is with me day and night."

"What do you mean, darling?"

"I mean that Henry's love frightens me, Morri. How shall I ever be able to live up to being the ideal creature he thinks that I am?" and Sabine gave a forced laugh.

"You are not a bad sort, you know," the Princess told her. "A man would be very hard to please if he was not quite satisfied with you!"

Moravia's own pain about the whole thing never clouded her sense of justice. Henry's love for her friend had been manifest from the very beginning, so she had never had any illusions or doubt about it; and if she had been so weak and foolish as to allow herself to fall in love with him, she must bear it and not be mean. Sabine certainly was not to blame.

"I—hope I shall satisfy him," Sabine sighed; "but I do not know. What does satisfy a man? Tell me, Moravia—you who understand them."

"It depends upon the man," and the Princess looked thoughtful. "I know now that if I had been clever I could have satisfied Girolamo for ages, by appearing to be always just a little out of his reach, so as to keep his hunting instinct alive. When a man is a very strong, passionate creature like that, it is the only way—make him scheme to get you to be lovely to him, make him wait, and never be sure if you are going to let him kiss you or no; and if you adore him really yourself, hide it, and let him feel always that he has to use his wits and all his charms to keep you. Oh! I could have been so happy if I had known these things in time!"

"Yes, Morri, but Henry is not—like that. How must I satisfy him?"

Moravia lay back in her chair and discoursed meditatively.

"It is only the very noblest natures in men that women can be perfectly frank with, and as good and kind and tender as they feel they would like to be. Lord Fordyce is one of these. You could load him with devotion and love, and he would never take advantage of you; but just to satisfy him, Sabine, you need only be you, I expect!" and she looked fondly at her friend. "Though, darling, I tell you, if you were too nice to him, even he might turn upon you some day, probably. No woman can afford to be really devoted to a man; they can't help being mean, and immediately thinking the poor thing is of less consequence to please than some capricious cat they cannot obtain!"

Sabine nodded, and Moravia went on: "But you need not fear! Henry will adore you always—because you really don't care!" and she sighed a little bitterly at the contrariness of things.

"It is good not to care, then?"

"Yes, I think so; for happiness in a home, the woman ought always to love a little the less."

"Well, we shall be very happy, then," and Sabine echoed Moravia's sigh, but much more bitterly.

"You will be good to him, dearest?" Moravia asked rather anxiously. "He is the grandest character I have ever met in my life."

"Yes, I will be good to him."

"Just think!" Moravia, who had domestic instincts, now went on, in spite of the personal anguish she was feeling about her own love for Henry. "You may have the happiness soon of being the mother of a lovely little son like Girolamo!" and she gave a great sigh as she looked into the fire.

Sabine stiffened all over, and an expression of horrified repugnance and dismay grew in her face, and she drew her breath in with a little gasp. She had not faced this thought before, and she could not bear it now, and got up quickly, saying she must go off and dress or she would be late for dinner.

Moravia looked after her, full of wonder and foreboding for Henry. What happiness could he expect if the woman he adored felt like that!



CHAPTER XX

Christmas Eve was particularly frosty and bright. The sun poured through Sabine's windows high up when she woke, but her heart was heavy as lead. She had not had a single word alone with Henry the night before, and knew the dreaded tete-a-tete must come. She did not set herself to tell him who her husband was on this particular morning—about that she must be guided by events—but she could not make barriers between them, and must allow him to come to her sitting-room. He did, about half-past ten o'clock, his face full of radiance and love. She had always steadfastly refused to take any presents from him, but he had had the most beautiful flowers sent from Paris for her, and they had just arrived. She was taking them out of their box herself. This made a pretext for her to express delighted thanks, and for a little she played her part so well that all Henry's doubts were set at rest, and he told himself that he had been imaginative and foolish to think that anything was changed in her.

He helped her to put all the lovely blooms into vases, so happy to think they should give her pleasure. And all the while he talked to her lovingly and soothingly, until Sabine could have screamed aloud, so full of remorse and constraint she felt. If he would only be disagreeable or unkind!

At last, among the giant violets, they came upon one bunch of white ones. These she took and separated, and, making them into two, she stuck one into her belt and gave Henry the other to put into his coat.

"Won't you fasten them in for me, dearest?" he said, his whole countenance full of passionate love.

She came nearer, and with hasty fingers put the flowers into his buttonhole.

The temptation was too great for Henry. He put his arm round her and drew her to his side, while he bent and kissed her sweet red mouth.

She did not resist him or start away, but she grew white as death, and he was conscious that, as he clasped her close, a repressed shudder ran through her whole frame.

With a little cry of anguish he put her from him, and searched with miserable eyes for some message in her face. But her lids were lowered and her lips were quivering with some pain.

"My darling, what is it? Sabine, you shrank from me! What does it mean?"

"It means—nothing, Henry." And the poor child tried to smile. "Only that I am very foolish and silly, and I do not believe I like caresses—much." And then, to make things sound more light, she went on: "You see, I have had so few of them in my life. You must be patient with me until I learn to—understand."

Of course he would be patient, he assured her, and asked her to forgive him if he had been brusque, his refined voice full of adoring contrition. He caught at any gossamer thread to stifle the obvious thought that if she loved him even ever so little he would not have to accustom her to caresses; she would long ago have been willing to learn all of their meanings in his arms!—and this was only the second time during their acquaintance that she had even let him kiss her!

But of her own free will she now came and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Henry," she pleaded, "I am not really as I know you think I am—a gentle and loving woman. There are all sorts of fierce sides in my character which you have not an idea of, and I am only beginning to guess at them myself. I do not know that I shall ever be able to make you happy. I am sure I shall not unless you will be contented with very little."

"The smallest tip of your finger is more precious to me than all the world, darling!" he protested with heat. "I will be patient. I will be anything you wish. I will not even touch you again until you give me leave. Oh! I adore you so—Sabine, I will bear anything if only you do not mean that you want to send me away."

The anguish and fond worship in his face wrung her heart. She started from him and then, returning, held out her arms, while she cried with a pitiful gasp, almost as of a sob in her throat:

"Yes—take me and kiss me—kiss me until I don't feel!—I mean until I feel—Henry, you said you would make me forget!"

He encircled her with his arm and led her to a sofa, murmuring every vow of passionate love; and here he sat by her and kissed her and caressed her to his heart's content, while she remained apparently passive, but still as white as the violets in her dress, and inwardly she could hardly keep from screaming, the torture of it was so great. At last she could bear no more, but disengaging herself from his arms she slipped on to the floor, and there sat upon a low footstool, with her back to the fire, shivering as though with icy cold.

Lord Fordyce's instincts were too fine not to realize something of the meaning of this scene. Although not greatly learned in the ways of women, he had kissed them often before in his life, and none had received his caresses like that. But since she did not repulse him, he must not despair. She perhaps was, as she said, unused to fond dalliance, and he must be more controlled, and wait. So with an inward sense of pain and chill in his heart, he set himself to divert her otherwise, talking of the books which they both loved, and so at last, when Nicholas announced that dejeuner was ready, some color and animation had come back to her face.

But when she was alone in her room she looked out of the high window and passionately threw up her arms.

"I cannot bear it again!" she wailed fiercely. "I feel an utterly degraded wretch."

At breakfast the Pere Anselme watched her intently while he kept his aloof air. He felt that something extra had disturbed her. He was to stay in the house with them on Christmas night, because it was so cold for him to return to his home after dinner, and Sabine could not possibly spare him; she assured him he must be with them at every meal. His wit was so apt, and with Madame Imogen's aid he kept the ball rolling as merrily as he could. But he, no less than Henry, was conscious that all was not well.

And afterwards, as he went towards the village, he communed with himself, his kind heart torn with the deep-seated look of resignation in the eyes of his Dame d'Heronac.

"She is too young to be made to suffer it," he said, half aloud. "The good God cannot ask so much, as a price for wilfulness; and if this man has grown as distasteful to her as her face seems to suggest, nothing but misery could come from their dual life." It was all very cruel to the Englishman, no doubt, but where was the wisdom of letting two people suffer? Surely it was better to let only one pay the stakes, and if this thing went on, both would have equal unhappiness, and be tied together as two animals in a menagerie cage.

No gentleman should accept such a sacrifice. If the Lord Fordyce did not realize for himself that something had changed things, it must be that he, Gaston d'Heronac, the Pere Anselme, must intervene. It might be very fine and noble to stick to one's word, but it became quixotic if to do so could only bring misery to oneself and one's mate!

The good priest stalked on to his presbytere, and then to his church, to see that all should be ready for reveillon that night, and he was returning to the chateau to tea when he met Henry taking a walk.

After lunch Sabine had gone off with Moravia to Girolamo's nurseries, and Lord Fordyce had felt he must go out and get some air. Mr. Cloudwater had started with Madame Imogen in the motor on a commission to their little town directly they had all left the dining-room. Thus Henry was alone.

He greeted the Pere Anselme gladly. The old priest's cultivated mind was to him always a source of delight.

So he turned back and walked with him into the garden and along by the sea wall, instead of across the causeway and to the house. This was the doing of the Pere Anselme, for he felt now might be his time.

Henry had been growing more and more troubled while he had been out by himself. He could not disguise the fact that there was some great change in Sabine, and now his anxious mood craved sympathy and counsel from this her great friend.

"Madame Howard does not look quite well, Father," he remarked, after they had pulled some modern philosophies to pieces, and there had been a pause. "She is so nervous—what is the cause of it, do you know? Perhaps this place does not suit her in the winter. It is so very cold."

"Yes, it is cold—but that is not the reason." And the Pere Anselme drew closer his old black cloak. "There are other and stronger causes for the state in which we find the Dame Sabine."

Henry peered into his face anxiously in the gray light—it was four o'clock, the day would soon be gone. He knew that these words contained ominous meaning, and his voice was rather unsteady as he asked:

"What are the reasons, Father? Please tell me if you are at liberty to do so. To me the welfare of this dear lady is all that matters in life."

The Cure of Heronac cleared his throat, and then he said gently:

"I spoke once before to you about the cinders and as to whether or no they were still red. That is what causes her to be restless—she has found that they are yet alight."

Lord Fordyce was a brave man, but he grew very pale. It seemed that suddenly all the fears which his heart had sheltered, though would not own as facts, were rising before him like giant skeletons, concrete and distinct.

"But the divorce is going well!" he exclaimed a little passionately, his hurt was so great. "She told me so last night; she will be free some time in January, and will then be my wife."

His happiness should not be torn from him without a desperate fight.

The priest's voice was very sad as he answered:

"That is so. She will, no doubt, be ready to marry you whenever you ask it is for you to demand of yourself whether you will accept her sacrifice."

"Sacrifice! I would never dream of any sacrifice. It is unthinkable, Father!"

Anguish now distraught Henry's soul; he stopped in his walk and looked full at the priest, his fine, distinguished face working with suffering. The Pere Anselme thought to himself that he would have done very well for the model of a martyr of old. It distressed him deeply to see his pain and to know that there would be more to come.

"Her happiness is all that I care for—surely you know this—but what has caused this change? Has she seen her husband again?—I——" Here Henry stopped, a sense of stupefaction set in. What could it all mean?

"We have never spoken upon the matter," the priest answered him. "I cannot say, but I think—yes, she has certainly come under his influence again. Have you never searched in your mind, Monsieur, to ask yourself who this husband could be?"

"No—! How should I have done so? I have never been in America in my life." And then Henry's haggard eyes caught a look in the old priest's face. "My God!" he cried, agony in his voice, "you would suggest that it is some one I may know!"

"I suggest nothing, Monsieur. I make my own deductions from events. Will you not do the same?"

Henry covered his eyes with his hands. It seemed as though reason were slipping from him; and then, like a flash of lightning which cleared his brain, the reality struck him.

"It is Michael Arranstoun," he said with a moan.

"We know nothing for certain," proclaimed the Pere Anselme. "But the alteration began from this young man's visit. That is why I warned you to well ascertain the truth of her feelings before going further. I would have saved you pain."

Henry staggered to the wall of the summer-house and leant there. His face was ashen-gray in the afternoon's dying light.

"Oh, how hopelessly blind I have been!"

The priest unclasped his tightly-locked hands; his old eyes were full of pity as he answered:

"We may both have made mistakes. You are more aware of the circumstances than I am. The Seigneur of Arranstoun is the only man she has seen here besides yourself. You perhaps know whom she met in England, or Paris?"

"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 Heronac, 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 in its 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 Pere 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 Pere 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 chateau now, with no parti 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 Pere 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 must go 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.



CHAPTER XXI

When Lord 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 Heronac 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 what would 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 Heronac 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 Pere 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 Pere 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 the presbytere. He must speak once more to the priest. The Pere 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 sacrifice which, 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 Pere 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'Heronac? 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 each other 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, and pax 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'Heronac 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 chateau and was going up the chief staircase to his room, he met Moravia coming down. 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 comfortable bergere, 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 from her 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 mean to 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 have done. 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. I love to 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 in their 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."



CHAPTER XXII

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something further must be done.

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

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

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

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