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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry writhed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXIII

Very early on Christmas morning, Lord Fordyce went down to the presbytere and walked with the Pere Anselme on his way to Mass. He had come to a conclusion during the night. The worthy priest would be the more fitting person to see Michael than he, himself; he felt he could well leave all explanations in those able hands—and then, when his old friend knew everything, he, Henry, would meet him and bring him to the Chateau of Heronac, and so to Sabine.

The Pere Anselme was quite willing to undertake this mission; he would have returned to his breakfast by then and would await Michael's arrival, he told Henry. Michael would come from the station, twenty kilometers away, in Henry's motor.

The wind had got up, and a gloriously rough sea beat itself against the rocks. The thundering surf seemed some comfort to Henry. He was unconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had ever imagined that he could feel after such a blow. Moravia's maneuvrings and sweet sympathy had been most effective, and Henry had fallen asleep while her spell was still upon him—and only awakened after several hours of refreshing slumber. Then it was he decided upon the plan, which he put into execution as soon as daylight came. Now he left the old priest at the church door and strode away along the rough coast road, battling with the wind and trying to conquer his thoughts.

He was following Moravia's advice, and replacing each one of pain as it came with one of pleasure—and the cold air exhilarated his blood.

Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxiety and speculation. What had happened? There was no clue in Henry's dry words in the telegram. Had there been some disaster? Was Henry violently angry with him? What would their meeting bring? He had come in to the Ritz from a dinner party, and had got the telegram just in time to rush straight to the station with a hastily-packed bag, and get into an almost-moving train, and all night long he had wondered and wondered, as he sat in the corner of his carriage. But whatever had happened was a relief—it produced action. He had no longer just to try to kill time and stifle thought; he could do something for good or ill.

It seemed as though he would never arrive, as the hours wore on and dawn faded into daylight. Then, at last, the crawling engine drew up at his destination, and he got out and recognized Henry's chauffeur waiting for him on the platform. The swift rush through the cold air refreshed him, and took away the fatigue of the long night—and soon they had drawn up at the door of the presbytere, and he found himself being shown by the priest's ancient housekeeper into the spotlessly clean parlor.

The Pere Anselme joined him in a moment, and they silently shook hands.

"You are not aware, sir, why you have been sent for, I suppose?" the priest asked, with his mild courtesy. "Pray be seated, there by the stove, and I will endeavor to enlighten you."

Michael sat down.

"Please tell me everything," he said.

The Pere Anselme spread out his thin hands toward the warmth of the china, while he remained standing opposite his visitor.

"The good God at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that our Dame d'Heronac has not been altogether happy of late—and upon my suggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what I believe to be the truth—which you, sir, can corroborate—namely, that you are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, but from a motive of loyalty to your friend."

"That is the case," assented Michael quietly, a sudden great joy in his heart.

The priest was silent, so he went on:

"And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?—release her and give her back to me—or what, mon Pere?"

"Is it necessary to ask?" and Pere Anselme lifted questioning and almost whimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is a gentleman!"

"Yes, I know that—but it must mean the most awful suffering to him—poor, dear old Henry—Is he quite knocked out?"

"The good God tries no one beyond his strength—he will find consolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer you the hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"—here the old man made a courtly bow—"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, you can take the road to the Chateau of Heronac, where you will find Lord Fordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to Madame Sabine. That is as he may think wisest—I believe she is quite unprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you are the best judge yourself."

"It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time, mon Pere."

"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves—since the good God has seen fit to restore you to happiness."

"I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?"

The old priest coughed slightly.

"I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine——"

Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly.

"No, indeed, I do not—I know I have been an unspeakable brute—I have not the grain of an excuse to offer—and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not, mon Pere?"

The Cure of Heronac sighed gently.

"Angels when they love, and demons when they hate—of an unbalance—but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them—to heaven or hell."

Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Pere Anselme led the way without further words.

Less than an hour later, the two men who loved this one woman met just over the causeway, where Henry awaited Michael's coming. It was a difficult moment for them both, but they clasped hands with a few ordinary words. Henry's walk in the wind had strengthened his nerves. For some reason, he was now conscious that he was feeling no acute pain as he had expected that he would do, and that there was even some kind of satisfaction in the thought that, on this Christmas morning, he was able to bring great happiness to Sabine. He could not help remarking, as they crossed the drawbridge, that Michael looked a most suitable mate for her: he was such a picture of superb health and youth. As they entered the courtyard, Moravia and her little son came out of the main door.

The Princess greeted them gaily. She was going to show Girolamo the big waves from the causeway bridge before going on to church; they had a good half-hour. She experienced no surprise at seeing Michael, only asking about his night journey's uncomfortableness, and then she turned to Henry:

"Come and join us there by the high parapet, Henry, as soon as you have taken Mr. Arranstoun up to Sabine. She has not come out of her wing yet; but I know that she is dressed and in her sitting-room," and smiling merrily, she took Girolamo's little hand and went her way.

There was no sound when the two men reached Sabine's sitting-room door. Henry knocked gently, but no answer came; so he opened it and looked in. Great fires burned in the wide chimneys and his flowers gave forth sweet scent, but the Lady of Heronac was absent, or so it seemed.

"Come in, Michael, and wait," Henry said; and then, from the embrasure of the far window, they heard a stifled exclamation, and saw that Sabine was indeed there after all, and had risen from the floor, where she had been kneeling by the window-seat looking out upon the waves.

Her face was deadly pale and showed signs of a night's vigil, but when she caught sight of Michael it was as though the sun had emerged from a cloud, so radiant grew her eyes. She stood quite still, waiting until they advanced near to her down the long room, and then she steadied herself against the back of a tall chair.

"Sabine," Henry said, "I want you to be very happy on this Christmas day, and so I have brought your husband back to you. All these foolish divorce proceedings are going to be stopped, and you and he can settle all your differences, together, dear—" then, as a glad cry forced itself from Sabine's lips—his voice broke with emotion. She stretched out her hands to him, and he took one and drew her to Michael, who stood behind him.

Then he took also his old friend's hand, and clasped it upon Sabine's.

"I am not much of a churchman," he said, hoarsely, "but this part of the marriage service is true, I expect. 'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.'" Then he dropped their hands, and turned toward the door.

"Oh! Henry, you are so good to us!" Sabine cried. "No words can say what I feel."

But Lord Fordyce could bear no more—and murmuring some kind of blessing, he got from the room, leaving the two there in the embrasure of the great window gazing into each other's eyes.

As the door shut, Michael spoke at last:

"Sabine—My own!" he whispered, and held out his arms.

* * * * *

When Henry left Sabine's sitting-room, he staggered down the stairs like one blind—the poignant anguish had returned, and the mantle of comfort fell from his shoulders. He was human, after all, and the picture of the rapture on the faces of the two, showing him what he had never obtained, stabbed him like a knife. He felt that he would willingly drop over the causeway bridge into the boiling sea, and finish all the pain. He saw Moravia's blue velvet dress in the distance down the road when he left the lodge gates, and he fled into the garden; he must be alone—but she had seen him go, and knew that another crisis had come and that she must conquer this time also. So apparently only for the gratification of Girolamo, she turned and entered the garden—the garden which seemed to be a predestined spot for the stratagems of lovers!—then she strolled toward the sea-wall, not turning her head in the direction where she plainly perceived Henry had gone, but taking care that Girolamo should see him, as she knew he would run to him. This he immediately did, and dragged his victim back to his mother in the pavilion which looked out over the sea. Girolamo was now three years old and a considerable imp; he displayed Henry proudly and boasted of his catch—while Moravia scolded him sweetly and asked Henry to forgive them for intruding upon his solitude.

"You know I understand you must want to be alone, dear friend, and I would not have come if I had seen you," she said, tenderly, while she turned and, leaning out, beckoned to the nurse, whom she could just see across the causeway on the courtyard wall, where the raised parapet was. Then allowing her feelings to overcome her judgment, she flung out her arms and seizing Henry's hands, she drew them into her warm, huge muff.

"Henry—I can't help it—!" she gasped. "It breaks my heart to see you so cold and white and numb—I want to warm and comfort and love you back to life again——!"

At this minute, the sun burst through the scudding clouds, and blazed in upon them from the archway; and it seemed to Henry as if a new vitality rushed into his frozen veins. She was so human and pretty, and young and real. Love for him spoke from her sparkling, brown eyes. The ascendancy she had obtained over him on the previous evening returned in a measure; he no longer wanted to get away from her and be alone.

He made some murmuring reply, and did not seek to draw away his hands—but a sudden change of feeling seemed to come over Moravia for she lowered her head and a deep, pink flush grew in her cheeks.

"What will you think of me, Henry?" she whispered, pulling at his grasp, which grew firmer as she tried to loosen it. "I"—and then she raised her eyes, which were suffused with tears. "Oh! it seems such horrid waste for you to be sick with grief for Sabine, who is happy now—and that only I must grieve——"

Girolamo had seen his nurse entering the far gate and was racing off to meet her, so that they were quite alone in the pavilion now, and Moravia's words and the tears in her fond eyes had a tremendous effect upon Henry. It moved some unknown cloud in his emotions. She, too, wanted comfort, not he alone—and he could bring it to her and be soothed in return, so he drew her closer and closer to him, and framed her face in his hands.

"Moravia," he said, tenderly. "You shall not grieve, dear child—If you want me, take me, and I will give you all the devotion of true friendship—and, who knows, perhaps we shall find the Indian summer, after all, now that the gates of my fool's paradise are shut."

In the abstract, it was not highly gratifying to a woman's vanity, this declaration! but, as a matter of fact, it was beyond Moravia's wildest hopes. She had not a single doubt in her astute American mind that, once she should have the right to the society of Henry—with her knowledge of the ways of man—that she would soon be able to obliterate all regrets for Sabine, and draw his affections completely to herself.

At this juncture, she showed a stroke of genius.

"Henry," she said, her voice vibrating with profound feeling, "I do want you—more than anything I have ever wanted in my life—and I will make you forget all your hurts—in my arms."

There was certainly nothing left for Lord Fordyce, being a gallant gentleman, to do but to stoop his tall head and kiss her—and, to his surprise, he found this duty turn into a pleasure—so that, in a few moments, when they were close together looking out upon the waves through the pavilion's wide windows, he encircled her with his arm—and then he burst into a laugh, but though it was cynical, it contained no bitterness.

"Moravia—you are a witch," he told her. "Here is a situation that, described, would read like pathos—and yet it has made us both happy. Half an hour ago, I was wishing I might step over into that foam—and now——"

"And now?" demanded the Princess, standing from him.

"And now I realize that, with the New Year, there may dawn new joys for me. Oh! my dear, if you will be content with what I can give you, let us be married soon and go to India for the rest of the winter."

* * * * *

The Pere Anselme noticed that his only congregation from the Chateau consisted of Mr. Cloudwater and Madame Imogen; and he thanked the good God—as he sent up a fervent prayer for the absentees' happiness.

"It means that they two are near heaven, and that consolation will come to the disconsolate one, since all four remain at home," he told himself. This was a denouement worthy of Christmas Day, and of far more value in his eyes than the two pairs' mere presence in his church.

"The ways of the good God are marvellous," he mused, as he went to his vestry, "and it is fitting that youth should find its mate. We grieve and wring our hearts—and nothing is final—and while there is life there is hope—that love may bloom again. Peace be with them."



CHAPTER XXIV

When the first moment of ecstasy in the knowledge that they were indeed given back to each other was over, Michael drew Sabine to the window seat where she had been crouching only that short while before in silent misery.

"Sweetheart," he entreated, "now you have got to tell me everything—do you understand, Sabine—every single thing from the first moment in the chapel when we made those vows until now when we are going to keep them. I want to know everything, darling child—all your thoughts and what you did with your life—and when you hated me and when you loved me——"

They sat down on the velvet cushions and Sabine nestled into his arms.

"It is so difficult, Michael," she cooed, "how can I begin? I was sillier and more ignorant than any other girl of seventeen could possibly be, I think—don't you? Oh! don't let us speak of that part—I only remember that when you kissed me first in the chapel some kind of strange emotion came to me—then I was frightened——"

"But not after a while," he interpolated, something of rapturous triumph in his fond glance, while he caressed and smoothed her hair, as her little head lay against his shoulder, "I thought you had forgiven me before I went to sleep."

"Perhaps I had—I did not know myself—only that there in the gray dawn everything seemed perfectly awful and horror and terror came upon me again, and I had only one wild impulse to rush away—surely you can understand—" she paused.

"Go on, sweetheart," he commanded, "I shall not let you off one detail. I love to make you tell me every single thing"—and he took her hand and played with her wedding ring, but not taking it off, while Sabine thrilled with happiness.

"Well—you did not wake—and so presently I got into the sitting-room, and at last found the certificate—and just as I was going out of the door on to the balcony I heard you call my name sleepily—and for one second I nearly went back—but I did not, and got safely away and to the hotel!"

"Think of my not waking!" Michael exclaimed. "If only I had—you would never have been allowed to go—it is maddening to remember what that sleep cost—but how did you manage at the hotel?"

"It was after five o'clock and the side door was open into the yard. Not a soul saw me, and I carried out my original plan. I think when I was in the train I had already begun to regret bitterly, but it was too late to go back—and then next day your letter came to me at Mr. Parsons' and all my pride was up in arms!"

Here Michael held her very tight.

"Oh, what a brute I was to write that letter," he cried.

"All I wanted then was to go away and forget all about you and everything and have lots of nice clothes and join my friend Moravia in Paris. You see, I was still just a silly ignorant child. Mr. Parsons got me a good maid who is with me still, and he agreed at last to my taking the name of Howard—I thought if I kept the Arranstoun everyone would know."

"But what did you intend to do, darling, with your life. We were both crazy, of course, you to go—and I to let you."

"I had no concrete idea. Just to see the world and buy what I wanted, and sit up late—and not have to obey any rules, I think—and underneath there was a great excitement all the time in the thought of looking perfectly splendid in being a grand grown-up lady when you came back—for of course I believed then that we must meet again."

"Well, what changed all that and made you become engaged to Henry, you wicked little thing!" and Michael kissed her fondly—"Was it because I did not come back?—but you could have cabled to me at any time."

An enchanting confusion crept over Sabine—she hesitated—she began to speak, then stopped and finally buried her face in his coat.

"What is it, darling?" he asked with almost a tone of anxiety in his voice. "Did you have some violent flirtation with someone at this stage? and you think I shall be annoyed—but indeed I shall not, because I do fully realize that whatever you did was my fault for leaving you alone—Tell me, Sabine, you sweet child."

"No—it wasn't that——"

"Well—then?"

"Well—then I was—terrified—it was my old maid, Simone, who told me what had happened—I was still too ignorant to understand things."

"Told you what? What wretched story did the old woman invent about me?" Michael's eyes were haughty—that she could listen to stories from a maid!

Sabine clasped her hands together—she was deeply moved.

"Oh, Michael—you are stupid! How can I possibly tell you—if you won't understand."

Then she jumped up suddenly and swiftly brought her blue-despatch box from beside her writing-table and unlocked it with her bracelet key—while Michael with an anxious, puzzled face watched her intently. She sat down again beside him when she had found what she sought—the closed blue leather case which she had looked at so many times.

"If you are going to show me some brute's photograph I simply refuse to look," Michael said. "All that part of your life is over and we are going to begin afresh, darling one, no matter what you did."

But she crept nearer to him as she opened the case—and her voice was full and sweet, shy tenderness as she blurted out:

"It is not a brute's photograph, Michael, it is the picture of your own little son."

"My God!" cried Michael, the sudden violent emotion making him very pale. "Sabine—how dared you keep this from me all these years—I—" Then he seized her in his arms and for a few seconds they could neither of them speak—his caresses were so fierce. At last he exclaimed brokenly, "Sabine—with the knowledge of this between us how could you ever have even contemplated belonging to another man—Oh! if I had only known. Where is—my son?"

"You must listen, Michael, to everything," Sabine whispered, "then you will understand—I was simply terrified when I realized at last, and only wanted to go back to you and be comforted, so I wrote a letter at once to tell you, and as Mr. Parsons was in England again I sent it to him to have it put safely into your hands. But by then you had gone right off to China, and Mr. Parsons sent the letter back to me, it was useless to forward it to you, he said, you might not get it for a year."

Michael strained her to his heart once more, while his eyes grew wet.

"Oh, my poor little girl—all alone, how frightfully cruel it was, no wonder you hated me then, and could not forgive me even afterward."

"I did not hate you—I was only terrified and longing to rush off somewhere and hide—so Simone suggested San Francisco—the furthest off she knew, and we hurried over there and then I was awfully ill, and when my baby was born I very nearly died."

Michael was wordless, he could only kiss her. "That is what made him so delicate—my wretchedness and rushing about," she went on, "and so I was punished because, after three months, God took him back again—my dear little one—just when I was beginning to grow comforted and to love him. He was exactly like you, Michael, with the same blue eyes, and I thought—I thought, we should go back to Arranstoun and finish our estrangements and be happy again—the three of us—when you did come home—I grew radiant and quite well—" Here two big tears gathered in her violet eyes and fell upon Michael's hand, and he shivered with the intensity of his feelings as he held her close.

"We had made our plans to go East—but my little sweetheart caught cold somehow—and then he died—Oh! I can't tell you the grief of it, Michael, I was quite reckless after that—it was in June and I did not care what happened to me for a long while. I just wanted to get back to Moravia, not knowing she had left Paris for Rome—and then I crossed in July—and came here to Brittany and saw and bought Heronac as I told you before. I heard then that you had not returned from China or made any sign—and it seemed all so cruel and ruthless, and as there were no longer any ties between us I thought that I would crush you from my life and forget you, and that I would educate myself and make something of my mind."

"Oh, my dear, my dear little girl," Michael sighed. "If you knew how all this is cutting me to the heart to think of the awful brute I have been—to think of you bearing things all alone—I somehow never realized the possibility of this happening—but once or twice when it did cross my mind I thought of course you would have cabled to me if so—I am simply appalled now at the casual selfishness of my behavior—can you ever forgive me, Sabine?"

She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, now soft and glistening with tears.

"Of course I can forgive you, Michael—I belong to you, you see——"

So when he had kissed her enough in gratitude and contrition he besought her to go on.

"The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you—and my life grew so peaceful with the Pere Anselme and Madame Imogen here at Heronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies kept developing for me. I seemed to grow up and realize things and the memory of you grew less and less—but society never held out any attractions for me—only to be with Moravia. I had taken almost a loathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory, not a single one attracted me in the least degree—until this summer at Carlsbad when we met Henry. And he appeared so good and true and kind—and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guiding hand to greatness of purpose in life—I liked him—but I must tell you the truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am," here she held tightly to Michael's hand—"I do not think I would ever have promised him at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in the paper that you were at Ostende—with Daisy Van der Horn. That exasperated me—even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent to you after five years. I had never seen your name in the paper before, it was the first indication I had had that you had come home—and the whole thing wounded my pride. I felt that I must ask for my freedom from you before you possibly could ask for yours from me. So I told Henry that very night that I had made up my mind."

"Oh! you dear little goose," Michael interrupted. "Not one of those ladies mattered to me more than the other—they were merely to pass the time of day, of no importance whatever."

"I dare say—but I am telling you my story, Michael—Well, Henry was so wonderful, so good—and it got so that he seemed to mean everything fine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less and less to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite—except for the irritation I felt about Daisy—and then by that extraordinary turn of fate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the name of the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurried postscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one—I saw you both arrive from the lodge, and when I heard the tones of your voice—Ah! well, you can imagine what it meant!"

"No, I want to know, little darling—what did it mean?" and Michael looked into her eyes with fond command.

"It made my heart beat and my knees tremble and a strange thrill came over me—I ought to have known then that to feel like that did not mean indifference—oughtn't I?"

"I expect so—but what a moment it was when we did meet, you must come to that!"

"Arrogant, darling creature you are, Michael! You love to make me recount all these things," and Sabine looked so sweetly mutinous that he could not remain tranquilly listening for the moment, but had to make passionate love to her—whispering every sort of endearment into her little ear—though presently she continued the recital of her story again:

"I stood there in the lodge after the shock of seeing you had passed, and I began to burn with every sort of resentment against you—I had had all the suffering and you had gone free—and I just felt I wanted to punish you by pretending not to know you! Think of it! How small—and yet there underneath I felt your old horribly powerful charm!"

"Oh, you did, did you! You darling," Michael exclaimed—and what do you suppose I felt—if we had only rushed there and then into each other's arms!"

"I was quite prepared for you in the garden—and did not I play my part well! You got quite white, you know with surprise—and I felt exquisitely excited. I could see you had come in all innocence—having probably forgotten our joking arrangement that I should call myself Mrs. Howard—I could not think why you did not speak out and denounce me. It hurt my pride, I thought it was because you wanted to divorce me and marry Daisy that you were indifferent about it. I did not know it was because you had given your word of honor to Henry not to interfere with the woman he loved. Then after dinner Henry told me you knew that he and I were practically engaged—that stung me deeply—it seemed to prove your indifference—so things developed and we met in the garden—Michael, was not that a wonderful hour! How we both acted. If you had indicated by word or look that you remembered me, I could not have kept it up, we should have had to tell Henry then—we were playing at cross-purposes and my pride was wounded."

"I understand, sweetheart, go on."

"Well, I was miserable at luncheon, and then when you went out in the boat—being with you was like some intoxicating drink—I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. I was horrid toward Henry, I would not own it to myself, but I felt him to be the stumbling block in the way. So I was extra nice to him to convince myself—and I let him hold my arm, which I had never done before and you saw that in the garden. I suppose—and thought I loved him and so went—that was nice of you, Michael—but stupid, wasn't it!"

"Ridiculously stupid, everything I did was stupid that separated you from me. The natural action of my character would have been just to seize you again and carry you off resisting or unresisting to Arranstoun, but some idiotic sentiment of honor to Henry held me."

"I cried a little, I believe, when I got your note—I went up into this room and opened this despatch-box and read your horrid letter again—and I believe I looked into the blue leather case, too"—here she opened it once more—and they both examined it tenderly. "Of course you can't see anything much in this little photograph—but he really was so like you, Michael, and when I looked at it again after seeing you, I could have sobbed aloud, I wanted you so——"

"My dear, dear, little girl——"

"Henry had told me casually that afternoon your story, and how he had not stayed at Arranstoun for the wedding because he thought your action so unfair to the bride!—and how that now you felt rather a dog in the manger about her. That infuriated me! Can't you understand I had only one desire, to show you that I did not care since you had gone off. Henry was simply angelic to me—and asked me so seriously if he could really make me happy, if not he would release me then. I felt if he would take me, all bruised and restless, and comfort me and bring me peace, I did indeed wish to be his wife—and if nothing more had happened we might have grown quite happy from then, but we went to England—and I saw you again—and—Oh! well, Michael, need I tell you any more? You know how we fenced and how at last we could not bear it—up in Mrs. Forster's room!"

"It was the most delirious and most unhappy moment of my life, darling."

"And now it is all over—isn't Henry a splendid man? I told him all this yesterday—the Pere Anselme had suggested to him to come and ask me for the truth. He behaved too nobly—but I did not know what he intended to do, nor if it were too late to stop the divorce or anything, so I was miserable."

"You shall not be so any more—we will go back to Arranstoun at once, darling, and begin a new and glorious life together. From every point of view that is the best thing to be done. We could not possibly go on all staying here, it would be grotesque—and I am quite determined that I will never leave you again—do you hear, Sabine?" And he turned her face and made her look into his eyes.

"Yes, I hear!—and know that you were always the most masterful creature!"

"Do you want to change me?"

But Sabine let herself be clasped in his arms while she abandoned herself to the deep passionate joy she felt.

"No—Michael—I would not alter you in one little bit, we are neither of us very good or very clever, but I just love you and you love me—and we are mates! There!"

* * * * *

They carried out their plans and arrived at Arranstoun Castle a few days later. Michael wired to have everything ready for their reception and both experienced the most profound emotion when first they entered Michael's sitting-room again.

"There is the picture, darling, that you fell through and—here is Binko waiting to receive and welcome you!"

The mass of fat wrinkles got up from his basket and condescended, after showing a wild but suppressed joy at the sight of his master, to be re-introduced to his mistress who expressed due appreciation of his beauty.

"That old dog has been my only confidant about you, Sabine, ever since I came back—he could tell you how frantic I was, couldn't you, Binko?"

Binko slobbered his acquiescence and then the tea was brought in; Sabine sat down to pour it out in the very chair she had sat in long ago. She was taller now, but still her little feet did not reach the ground.

The most ecstatic happiness was permeating them both, and it all seemed like a divine dream to be there together and alone. They reconstructed every incident of their first meeting in a fond duet—each supplying a link, and they talked of all their new existence together and what it would mean, and presently Michael drew Sabine toward the chapel where the lights were all lit.

"Darling," he whispered, "I want to make new vows of love and tenderness to you here, because to-night is our real wedding night—I want you to forget that other one and blot it right out."

But Sabine moved very close to him as she clung to his arm, and her whole soul was in her eyes as she answered:

"I do not want to forget it. I know very well that I had begun to love you even then. But, Michael—do you remember that undecorated window which you told me had been left so probably for you to embellish as an expiatory offering, because rapine and violence were in the blood—Well, dear love, I think we must put up the most beautiful stained glass together there—in memory of our little son. For we are equally to blame for his brief life and death."

But Michael was too moved to speak and could only clasp her hand.

THE END