[Illustration: "It all looked very intimate and lover-like"[Page 149]]

THE MAN AND THE MOMENT

BY

ELINOR GLYN

1914

AUTHOR OF "GUINEVERE'S LOVER, " "HALCYONE, ""THE REASON WHY, " ETC. 

[Illustration]

Illustrated byR. F. James

NEW YORKD. APPLETON AND COMPANY1914

Copyright, 1914, byD. APPLETON AND COMPANY

 * * * * *

Copyright, 1914, by The Red Book Corporation

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 FACING PAGE

"It all looked very intimate and lover-like" _Frontispiece_

"He bounded forward to meet her" 48

"His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant" 64

"'He is often in some scrape--something must have culminated to-night'" 224

THE MAN AND THE MOMENT

CHAPTER I

Michael Arranstoun folded a letter which he had been reading for theseventh time, with a vicious intentness, and then jumping up from thebig leather chair in which he had been buried, he said aloud, "Damn!"

When a young, rich and good-looking man says that particular word aloudwith a fearful grind of the teeth, one may know that he is in the verydevil of a temper!

Michael Arranstoun was!

And, to be sure, he had ample reason, as you, my friend, who may happento have begun this tale, will presently see. 

It is really most irritating to be suddenly confronted with theconsequences of one's follies at any age, but at twenty-four, whenotherwise the whole life is smiling for one, it seems quite too hard. 

The frightful language this well-endowed young gentleman now indulgedin, half aloud and half in thought, would be quite impossible to put onpaper! It contained what almost amounted to curses for a certain ladywhose appearance, could she have been seen at this moment, suggestedthat of a pious little saint. 

"How the h---- can I keep from marrying her!" Mr. Arranstoun said morethan aloud this time, and then kicking an innocent footstool across theroom, he called his bulldog, put on his cap and stamped out on to theold stone balcony which opened from this apartment, and was soonstalking down the staircase and across the lawn to a little door in thegreat fortified wall, which led into the park. 

He had hardly left the room when, from the wide arched doorway of hisbed-chamber beyond, there entered Mr. Johnson, his superior valet, carrying some riding-boots and a silk shirt over his arm. You could seethrough the open door that it was a very big and comfortable bedroom, which had evidently been adapted to its present use from some much morestately beginning. A large, vaulted chamber it was, with three narrowwindows looking on to the grim courtyard beneath. 

Michael Arranstoun had selected this particular suite for himself whenhis father died ten years before, and his mother was left to spoil him, until she, too, departed from this world when he was sixteen. 

What a splendid inheritance he had come into! This old border castle upin the north--and not a mortgage on the entire property! While, from hismother, a number of solid golden sovereigns flowed into his coffersevery year--obtained by trade! That was a little disgusting for theArranstouns--but extremely useful. 

It might have been from this same strain that the fortunate young manhad also inherited that common sense which made him fairly level-headed, and not given as a rule to any over-mad taste. 

The Arranstouns had been at Arranstoun since the time of those tiresomePicts and Scots--and for generations they had raided their neighbors'castles and lands, and carried off their cattle and wives and daughtersand what not! They had seized anything they fancied, and were a strong, ruthless, brutal race, not much vitiated by civilization. Theseinstincts of seizing what they wanted had gone on in them throughouteleven hundred years and more, and were there until this day, whenMichael, the sole representative of this branch of the family, said"Damn!" and kicked a footstool across the room into the grate. 

Mr. Johnson was quite aware of the peculiarity of the family. Indeed, hewas not surprised when Alexander Armstrong remarked upon it presently. Alexander Armstrong was the old retainer, who now enjoyed the positionof guide to the Castle upon the two days a week when tourists wereallowed to walk through the state rooms, and look at the splendidcarvings and armor and pictures, and the collection of plate. 

Johnson had had time to glance over his master's correspondence thatmorning, which, with characteristic recklessness, that gentleman hadleft upon his bed while he went to his bath, so his servant knew thecause of his bad temper, and had been prudent and kept a good deal outof the way. But the news was so interesting, he felt Alexander Armstrongreally ought to share the thrill. 

"Mrs. Hatfield's husband is dying, " he announced, as Armstrong, verydiffidently, peeped through the window from the balcony, and then, seeing no one but his friend the valet, entered the room. 

Alexander Armstrong spoke in broad Scotch, but I shall not attempt totranscribe this barbaric language; sufficient to tell you that he madethe excuse for his intrusion by saying that he had wanted to get someorder from the master about the tourists. 

"We shan't have any tourists when she's installed here as mistress!" Mr. Johnson remarked sepulchrally. 

Armstrong was heard to murmur that he did not know what Mr. Johnsonmeant! This was too stupid!

"Why, I told you straight off Mrs. Hatfield's husband is dying, " Johnsonexclaimed, contemptuously. "She wrote one of her mauve billy doos thismorning, telling the master so, and suggesting they'd soon be able to bemarried and happy--pretty cold-blooded, I call it, considering the poorman is not yet in his grave!"

Armstrong was almost knocked over by this statement; then helaughed--and what he said meant in plain English that Mr. Johnson neednot worry himself, for no Arranstoun had ever been known to be coercedinto any course of conduct which he did not desire himself--not beinghampered by consideration for women, or by any consideration but his ownwill. For the matter of that, a headstrong, ruthless race all of themand, as Mr. Johnson must be very well aware, their own particular masterwas a true chip of the old block. 

"See his bonny blue eye--" (I think he pronounced it "ee"), "see hismouth shut like a game spring. See his strong arms and his height! Seehim smash the boughs off trees when they get in his way! and then tellme a woman's going to get dominion over him. Go along, Mr. Johnson!"

But Johnson remained unconvinced and troubled; he had had severalunpleasant proofs of woman's infernal cunning in his own sphere of life, and Mrs. Hatfield, he knew, was as well endowed with Eve's wit as anyFrench maid. 

"We'll ha' a bet about it if you like, " Armstrong remarked, as he got upto go, the clock striking three. He knew the first batch of afternoontourists would be clamoring at the gate. 

Mr. Johnson looked at the riding-boots in his hand. 

"He went straight off for his ride without tasting a bite of breakfastor seeing Mr. Fordyce, and he didn't return to lunch, and just now Ifind every article of clothing strewn upon the floor--when he came inand took another bath--he did not even ring for me--he must havegalloped all the time; his temper would frighten a fighting cock. "

Meanwhile, Michael Arranstoun was tramping his park with giant strides, and suddenly came upon his friend and guest, Henry Fordyce, whose verypresence in his house he had forgotten, so turbulent had his thoughtsbeen ever since the early post came in. Henry Fordyce was a leisurelycreature, and had come out for a stroll on the exquisite June day uponhis own account. 

They exchanged a few remarks, and gradually got back to Michael'ssitting-room again, and rang for drinks. 

Mr. Fordyce had, by this time, become quite aware that an active volcanowas going on in his friend, but had waited for the first indication ofthe cause. It came in the course of a conversation, after the footmanhad left the room and both men were reclining in big chairs with theiriced whiskey and soda. 

"It is a shame to stay indoors on such a day, " Henry said lazily, looking out upon the balcony and the glittering sunshine. 

"I never saw anyone enjoy a holiday like you do, Henry, " Michaelretorted, petulantly. "I can't enjoy anything lately. 'Pon my soul, itis worth going into Parliament to get such an amount of pleasure out ofa week's freedom. "

But Henry did not agree that it was freedom, when even here atArranstoun he had been pestered to patronize the local bazaar. 

"The penalty of greatness! I wonder when you will be prime minister. Lord, what a grind!"

Mr. Fordyce stretched himself in his chair and lit a cigar. 

"It may be a grind, " he said, meditatively, "but it is for some definiteidea of good--even if I am a slave; whereas you!--you are tied and boundto a woman--and such a woman! You have not been able to call your soulyour own since last October as it is--and before you know where you are, you will be attending the husband's funeral and your own wedding in thesame week!"

Michael bounded from his chair with an oath. "I'll be shot if I do!" hesaid, and sat down again. Then his voice grew a little uncertain, and hewent on:

"It is worrying me awfully, though, Henry. If poor old Maurice does puffout--I suppose I ought to marry her--I----"

Mr. Fordyce stiffened, and the sleepy look in his gray eyes altered to aflash of steel. 

"Let us have a little plain speaking, Michael, old boy. It is not asthough I do not know the whole circumstance of your affair with VioletHatfield. I warned you about her in the beginning, when you met her atmy sister Rose's, but, as usual, you would take your own course----"

Michael began to speak, but checked himself--and Henry Fordyce went on. 

"I have had a letter from Rose this morning--as you of course know, Violet is staying for this Whitsuntide with them, having dragged herwretched husband, dying of consumption as he is, to this merry party. Well--Rose says poor Maurice is in a terrible state, caught a fresh coldon Saturday--and she adds, 'So I suppose we shall soon see Violetinstalled at Arranstoun as mistress. '"

"I know--I heard from Violet herself this morning, " and Michael put hishead down dejectedly. 

"Ebbsworth is only thirty-five miles from here, " Mr. Fordyce announcedwith meaning. "Violet can pop in on you at any moment, and she'll clinchthe matter and bind you with her cobwebs before you can escape. "

"Oh, Lord!"

"You know you are dead sick of her, Michael--and you know that I am notthe sort of man who would ever speak of a woman thus without gravereason; but she does not care for you any more than the half a dozenothers who occupied your proud position before your day--it is only formoney and the glory of having you tied to her apron strings. It was notany good hammering on while the passion was upon you; but I havewatched you, and have seen that it is waning, so now's my time. Withthis danger in front of you, you have got to pull yourself together, oldboy, and cut and run. "

"That would be no use--" Then Michael stammered a little. "I say, Henry, I won't hear a word against her. You can thunder at me--but leave herout. "

Mr. Fordyce smiled. 

"Did she express deep grief at poor Maurice's condition in her letter?"he asked. 

"Er--no--not exactly----"

"I thought not--she probably suggested all sorts of joys with you whenshe is free!"

There was an ominous silence. 

Mr. Fordyce's voice now took on that crisp tone which his adversaries inthe House of Commons so well knew meant that they must look to theirguns. 

"Delightful woman! A spider, I tell you, a roaring hypocrite, too, bamboozling poor Rose into thinking her a virtuous, persecuted littledarling, with a noble passion for you, and my sister is a downrightperson not easily fooled. At this moment, Violet is probably sheddingtears on her shoulder over poor Maurice, while she is plotting how soonshe can become mistress of Arranstoun. Good God! when I think of it--Iwould rather get in a girl from the village and go through the ceremonywith her, and make myself safe, than have the prospect of VioletHatfield as a wife. Michael, I tell you seriously, dear boy--you won'thave the ghost of a chance if you are still unmarried when poor Mauricedies!"

Michael bounded from his chair once more. He was perfectlyfurious--furious with the situation--furious with the woman--furiouswith himself. 

"Confound it, Henry, I--know it--but it does not mend matters yourranting there--and I am so sorry for the poor chap--Maurice, I mean--avery decent fellow, poor Maurice! Can't you suggest any way out?"

Mr. Fordyce mused a moment, while he deliberately puffed smoke, Michael's impatience increasing so that he ran his hands through hisdark, smooth hair, whose shiny, immaculate brushing was usually hispride!

"Can't you suggest a way out?" he reiterated. 

Mr. Fordyce did not reply--then after a moment: "You were always toomuch occupied with women, Michael--from your first scrape when you leftEton; and over this affair you have been a complete fool. "

Michael was heard to swear again. 

"You have been inconsistent, too, because you did not even employ yourusual ruthless methods of doing what you pleased with them. You havesimply drifted into allowing this vile creature's cobwebs to cling on toyour whole existence until you are almost paralyzed, and it seems to methat an immediate marriage with someone else is your only way of escape. Such a waste of your life! Just analyze the position. You haveeverything in the world, this glorious place--an oldname--money--prestige--and if your inclinations do run to the materialside of things instead of the intellectual, they are still successful intheir demonstration. No one has a better eye for a horse, or is a finershot. The best at driven grouse for your age, my boy, I have ever seen. You are full of force, Michael, and ought to do some decentthing--instead of which you spoil the whole outlook by fooling afterthis infernal woman--and you have not now the pluck to cut the Gordianknot. She will drag you to the lowest depths----"

Then he laughed. "And only think of that voice in one's ears all daylong! I would rather marry old Bessie at the South Lodge. She iseighty-four, she tells me, and would soon leave you a widower. "

The first ray of hope shot into Michael's bright blue eyes--and heexclaimed with a kind of joy, as he seized Binko, his bulldog, by hisfat, engaging throat:

"Bessie! Old Bessie--By Jove, what an idea!--the very thing. She'd do itfor me like a shot, dear old body!"

Binko gurgled and slobbered in sympathy. 

"She would be kind to you, too, Binko. She would not say she found yourhairs on every chair, and that you dribbled on her dress! She would nottell your master that he left his cigarette-ash about, and she hated thesmell of smoke! She would not want this room for her boudoir, she----"

Then he stopped his flow of words, suddenly catching sight of thewhimsical, sardonic smile upon his friend's face. 

"Oh, Lord!" he mumbled, contritely. "I had forgotten you were here, Henry. I am so jolly upset. "

"This heartlessness about poor Maurice has finished you, eh?" Mr. Fordyce suggested. He felt he might be gaining his end. 

Michael covered his face with his hands. 

"It seems so ghastly to think of marriage with the poor chap not yetdead--I am fairly knocked over--it really is the last straw--but shewill cry and make a scene--and she has certainly arguments--and it willmake one feel such a cad to leave her. "

"She wrote that--did she?--wrote of marriage and her husband's lastattack of hemorrhage in the same paragraph, I suppose. Michael, it isrevolting! My dear boy, you must break away from her--and then do try tooccupy yourself with more important things than women. Believe me, theyare all very well in their way and in their proper place--to be treatedwith the greatest courtesy and respect as wives and mothers--even loved, if you will, for a recreation--but as vital factors in a man's reallife! My dear fellow, the idea is ridiculous--that life should be forhis country and the development of his own soul----"

Michael Arranstoun laughed. 

"Jolly old Mohammedan! You think women have none, I suppose!"

Henry Fordyce frowned, because it was rather true--but he denied thecharge. 

"Nothing of the sort. Merely, I see things at their proper balance andyou cannot. "

Michael leaned back in his chair; he was quieter for a moment. 

"I only see what I want to see, Henry--and I am a savage--I cannot helpit--we have always been so. When I fancy a woman, I must obtainher--when I want a horse, I must have it. It is always _must_--and wehave not done so badly. We still possess our shoulders and chins andstrength after eleven hundred years of it!" and he stretched out asplendid arm, with a force which could have felled an ox. 

An undoubtedly fine specimen of British manhood he looked, sitting therein the June sunlight, which came in a shaft from the south mullionedwindow in the corner beyond the great fireplace, the space betweenoccupied by a large picture of uncertain date, depicting the landing ofMary, Queen of Scots, in her northern kingdom. 

His eyes roamed to this. 

"One of my ancestors was among that party, " he said, pointing to afigure. "He had just killed a Moreton and stolen his wife, that is whyhe looks so perky--the fellow in the blue doublet. "

Mr. Fordyce rose from his chair and fired his last shot. 

"And now a female spider is going to paralyze the last Arranstoun, andrule him for the rest of his days, sapping his vitality. "

But Michael protested. 

"By heaven, no!"

"Well, I'll leave you to think about it. I am going for another strollon this lovely day. " He had got to the window by this time, which lookedinto the courtyard on the opposite side to the balcony. "Goodness! whata party of tourists! It is a bore for you to have them all over theplace like this! To own a castle with state rooms to be shown to thepublic has its disadvantages. "

Michael looked at them, too, a large party of Americans, mostly of thatclass which compose the tourists of all countries, and which no nationfeels proud to own. He had seen hundreds of such, and turned awayindifferently. 

"They only come here twice a week, and it has been allowed for suchages--they are generally quiet, and fortunately their perambulationsclose at the end of the gallery. They don't intrude upon my own suite. They get to the chapel by the outside door. "

Henry crossed the room and went on to the balcony. 

"Mrs. Hatfield will alter all that, " he laughed, as he disappeared fromview. 

Michael flashed a rageful glance at his back, and then flung himselfinto his great armchair again, and pulled the wrinkled mass, whichcalled itself a prize bulldog, on to his lap. 

"I believe he's right and we are caught, Binko. If we fled to the RockyMountains, she would track us. If we stay and face it, she'll make analmighty scandal and force us to marry her. What in the devil's name arewe to do----!"

Binko licked his master's hands, and made noises, so full of gurgling, slobbering sympathy, no heart could have remained uncomforted. Whoknows! His canine common sense may have telepathically transmitted athought, for Michael suddenly plopped him on the floor, and stalkedtoward the fireplace to ring the bell, while he exclaimed, as thoughanswering a suggestion. "Yes, we'll send for old Bessie--that's the onlyway. "

But before he could reach his goal, the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots, landing fell forward with a crash, and through the aperture of a secretdoor which it concealed, there tumbled a very young and pretty girlright into the room. 

CHAPTER II

Mr. Arranstoun was extremely startled and annoyed, too, and before hetook in the situation, he had exclaimed, while Binko gave an ominousgrowl of displeasure:

"Confound it--who is that! These are private rooms!" Then, seeing it wasa girl on the floor, he said in another voice: "Quiet, Binko--" and thedog retired to his own basket under a distant table. "Oh, I beg yourpardon--but----"

The creature on the floor blinked at Michael with large, round, violeteyes, but did not move, while she answered aggrievedly--with a veryfaint accent, whether a little French or a little American, or a littleof both, he was not sure, only that it had something attractive aboutit. 

"You may well say 'but'! I did not mean to intrude upon your privateroom--but I had to run away from Mr. Greenbank--he was so horrid--" hereshe gasped a little for breath--"and I happened to see something like adoor ajar in the Gainsborough room, so I fled through it, and itfastened after me with a snap--I could not open it again--and it waspitch dark in that dreadful passage and not a scrap of air--I feltsuffocated, and I pushed on anywhere--and something gave way and I fellin here--that's all----"

She rattled this out without a stop, and then stared at Michael with herbig, childish eyes, but did not attempt to rise from the floor. 

He walked toward her and held out his hand, and with ceremonious andironical politeness, he began:

"May I not help you--I could offer you a chair----"

She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand. 

"I've knocked myself against your nasty table--why do you have it inthat place!"

Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:

"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainlyhave had it moved. "

"There is no use being sarcastic, " the girl said, almost crying now. "Ithurts very much, and--and--I want to go home. "

Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and saidmore sympathetically:

"I am very sorry--but where is home?"

The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock;the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short andspare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles. 

"She's American, of course, then, " Michael said to himself, observingthese, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face. "

She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, whichcontained no shadow of _gêne_ over the unusual situation, and then sheanswered quite simply:

"I haven't a home, you know--I'm just staying at the Inn with UncleMortimer and Aunt Jemima and--and--Mr. Greenbank--and we are tourists, Isuppose, and were looking at the pictures--when--when I had to runaway. "

Michael felt a little piqued with curiosity; she was a diversion afterhis perplexing, irritating meditations. 

"It would be so interesting to hear why you ran away--the whole story?"he suggested. 

The girl turned her head and looked out of the window, showing a dearlittle baby profile, and masses of light brown hair rolled up anyhow atthe back. She did not look older than seventeen at the outside, and waspeculiarly childish and slender for that. 

"But I should have to tell you from the beginning, and it is solong--and you are a stranger. "

Michael drew another chair nearer to her, and sat down, while his mannertook on a note of grave, elderly concern, which rather belied thetwinkle of mischief in his eyes. 

"Never mind that--I am sympathetic, and I am your host--and, byJove!--won't you have some tea! You look awfully tired and--dusty, " andhe rang the bell, and then reseated himself. "See, to be quite orthodox, we will make our own introduction--I am Michael Arranstoun--and youare----?"

The girl rose and made him a polite bow. "I am Sabine Delburg, " sheannounced. He bowed also--and then she went into a peal of silverylaughter that seemed to contain all the glad notes of spring and youth. "Oh, this is fun! and I--I should like some tea!" She caught sight ofherself in an old mirror, which stood upon a commode. "Goodness, what aguy I look! Why didn't you tell me that my hat was crooked!" She settledit straight, and began searching for a handkerchief up her sleeve and inher belt, but none was to be found. 

So Mr. Arranstoun handed her a clean one he chanced to have in hispocket. "I expect you want to wipe the smudge of dirt off your face, " hehazarded. 

She took it laughing, and showing an even row of beautiful teeth betweenred, full baby lips. 

"You are the owner of this castle, " she went on, as she gave firm rubsat the velvet pink cheeks. "That must be nice. You can do what you like, I suppose, " and here a sigh of regret escaped and made her voice lower. 

"I wish I _could_, " Mr. Arranstoun answered feelingly. 

"Well, if I were _a man_, I would!"

"What would you do?"

She turned and faced him, while she said, with extreme solemnity:

"I should never marry Mr. Greenbank. "

Michael laughed. 

"I don't suppose you would if you were a man!" At this moment, a footmananswered the bell. "Bring tea, please, " his master ordered, inwardlyamused at the servant's astonished face, and then when they were aloneagain, he continued his sympathetic questioning. 

"Who is Mr. Greenbank? You had to flee from him--you said he was horrid, I believe?"

Miss Delburg had removed her hat, and was trying to tidy her hair beforereadjusting it; she had the hat-pin in her mouth, but took it out toanswer vehemently:

"So he is, a pig! And I went and got engaged to him this morning! Yousee, " turning to the glass again, quite unembarrassed, "I can't get mymoney until I am married--and Uncle is so disagreeable, and Aunt Jemimanags all day long, and it was left in Papa's will that I was to livewith them--and I don't come of age until I am twenty-one, but I can getthe money directly if I marry--I was seventeen in May, and of course noone could stand it till twenty-one! Mr. Greenbank is the only personwho has asked me, and Aunt Jemima says no one else ever will! I havebeen out of the Convent for a whole month, and I can't bear it. "

Michael was beginning really to enjoy himself. She was something sofresh, so entirely different to anything he had ever seen in his lifebefore. There was nothing of shyness or awkwardness in her manner, asany English girl would have shown. She was absolutely at ease, with achildish, confiding innocence which he saw plainly was real, and not puton for his benefit. It was almost incredible in these up-to-date days. Amost engaging morsel of seventeen summers, he decided, as he answeredwith over-grave concern:

"What a hard fate!--but you have not told me yet why you ran away!"

The girl had finished her toilet by now, and reseated herself with agrown-up air in the big armchair. 

"Oh! well, he was just--horrid--that was all, " and then abruptly turningthe conversation, "It is a nice place you have here, and it does feellovely doing something wrong like this--having tea with you, I mean. Youknow, I have never spoken to a young man before. The Nuns always told usthey were dreadful creatures--but you don't look so bad--" and sheexamined her host critically. 

Michael accepted the implied appreciation. 

"What is Mr. Greenbank, then?"

The silver laugh rang out again, while she jumped up and peeped fromthe window into the courtyard. 

"Samuel--he's only a thing! Oh! Uncle and Aunt would be so angry if theycould see me here! And I expect they are all in a fine fuss now to knowwhat has happened to me! They never saw me go through the door, and Ihope they think that I've committed suicide out of one of the windows. Look!" and she danced excitedly, "there is Uncle talking to thecommissionaire. Oh, what fun!"

Mr. Arranstoun peeped, too--and saw a spare, elderly American of grimappearance in anxious confab with Alexander Armstrong. 

The whole situation struck him as delightful, and he laughed gaily, while he suggested: "You are perhaps rather a difficult charge?"

Miss Delburg resented this at once. 

"What an idea! How would you like to marry Mr. Greenbank, or stay withAunt Jemima for four years!"

"Well, you see, I can't contemplate it, as I am not a girl!"

Again those white teeth showed, and the violet eyes were suffused withlaughter. 

"No! Of course not. How silly I am--but I mean, how would you care to beforced to do something you did not like?"

Michael thought of his own fate. 

"By Jove! I should hate it!"

"Well--you can understand me!"

Then the door opened, and the butler and footman brought in the tea, eyeing their master's guest furtively, while they maintained thatsuperbly aloof manner of well-bred English servants. The pause theirentrance caused gave Mr. Arranstoun time to think, and an idea graduallybegan to unfold itself in his brain--and unconsciously he took out, andthen replaced in his breast pocket, a mauve, closely-written letter, while a frown of deep cogitation crept over his face. 

Miss Delburg, for her part, was only thrilled with the sight of the veryagreeable tea, and after waiting a moment to see what her preoccupiedhost would do when the servants left the room, hunger forced her to fallto the temptation of a particularly appetizing chocolate cake, which shesurreptitiously seized, and began munching with the frank joy of achild. 

"I do love them!" she sighed, "and we never were allowed them, only oncea month after Moravia Cloudwater got that awful toothache, and had tohave a big grinder pulled out. "

Michael was paying no attention to her; he had walked rapidly up anddown the room once or twice, much to her astonishment. 

At last he spoke. 

"I have an idea--but first let me give you some tea--No--do helpyourself, " then he paused awkwardly, and she at once proceeded to fillher cup. 

Binko had condescended to emerge from his basket under the table. Tea-time was an hour when he allowed himself to take an interest inhuman beings. 

"Oh! you darling!" the girl cried, putting down her cup. "You fat, lovely, wrinkly darling!"

"He is a nice dog, " his master admitted; his voice was actuallynervous--and he pulled Binko to him by his solid, fleshy paws, while hesat down in his chair again. 

Miss Delburg had got back into her seat, where she munched a cake andcontinued her tea. The chair was so deep and long that her little bitsof feet did not nearly reach the ground, but dangled there. 

"Mayn't I pour you out some, too?" she asked, getting forward again. "Ido love to pour out--and do you take sugar--? I like lumps and lumps ofit. "

"Oh--er--yes, " Michael agreed absently, and then he went on with thedetermined air of a person getting something off his chest. "I hardlyknow how to say what I am thinking of, it sounds so strange. Listen--Ialso must marry someone--anyone--to avert a fate I don't want--What doyou say to marrying _me_?"

The teapot came down into the tray with a bump, while the round, childish eyes grew like saucers with astonishment. 

"Oh!"

"I dare say it does surprise you--" Michael then hastened to add. "Imean, we should only go through the ceremony, of course, and you couldget your money and I my freedom. "

The girl clasped her hands round her knees. 

"And I should never have to see you again?" in a glad voice ofcomprehension. 

Michael leaned forward nearer to her. 

"Well--no--never, unless you wished. "

Miss Delburg actually kicked her feet with delight. 

"It is a perfectly splendid suggestion, " she announced. "We could justoblige one another in this way, and need never see or speak to eachother again. What made it come into your head? Do you really think wecould do that--Oh! how rude of me--I've forgotten to pour out your tea!"

"Never mind, talking about--our marriage--is more interesting, " and Mr. Arranstoun's blue eyes filled with mischievous appreciation of thesituation, even beyond the seriousness of the discussion he meant tocarry to an end. But this aspect did not so much concern Miss Delburg, as that she had let slip a particular pleasure for the moment, that ofbeing allowed a teapot in her own hand, instead of being given a hugebowl of milk with a drop of weak coffee mixed in it, and watching a likefate fall upon her companions. 

When this delightful business was accomplished to her satisfaction, hersweet little round face a model of serious responsibility the while, shehanded Michael the cup and drew herself back once more into the depthof the giant chair. 

"I can't behave nicely in this great creature, " she said, patting thefat cushioned arms, "and the Mother Superior would be horribly shocked, but don't let's mind. Now, do tell me something about this plan. Yousee, " gravely, "I really don't know the world very well yet--I havealways been at the Convent near Tours until a month ago--even in theholidays, since I was seven--and the Sisters never told me anythingabout outside, except that it was a place of pitfalls and that men weredreadful creatures. I was very happy there, except I wanted to get outall the time, and when I did and found Uncle and Aunt more tiresome thanthe Sisters--there seemed no help for it--only Mr. Greenbank. So Iaccepted him this morning. But--" and this awful thought caused herwhole countenance to change. "Now I come to think of it, the usualgetting married means you would have to stay with the man--wouldn't you?And he wants--he wants to kiss--I mean, " hurriedly, "you would be lovelyto marry because I would never have to see you again!"

Michael Arranstoun put his head back and laughed; she was perfectlydelicious--he began to dislike Mr. Greenbank. 

His tea was quite forgotten. 

"Er--of course not, " he agreed. "Well, I could get a special license, if you could tell me exactly how you stand, and your whole name and yourparents' names, and everything, and we could get their consent--but Iconclude your father, at least, is no longer alive. "

Miss Delburg had a very grown-up air now. 

"No, my parents are both dead, " she told him. "Papa three years ago, andMamma for ages, and I never saw them much anyhow. They were alwaystravelling about, and Mamma was a Frenchwoman and a Catholic. Her familydid not speak to her because she married a Protestant and an American. And the worry it was for me being brought up in a convent! because Papawould have me a Protestant, so I do believe I have got a little religionof my own that is not like either!"

"Yes?"

She continued her narrative in the intervals of the joy of munchinganother cake. 

"Papa was very rich, and it's all mine--Only it appears he did notapprove of the freedom of American women--and so tied it up so that Ican't get it until I am an old maid of twenty-one--or get married. Is itnot disgusting?"

Michael's thoughts were now concentrating upon the vital points. 

"But have you not got a guardian or something?"

"Not exactly. Only an old lawyer person who is now in London. I haveseen Papa's will, and I know I can marry when and whom I like if I gethis consent--and he would give it in a minute, he is sick of me!"

"How fortunate!" Then restlessness seized him again, and he got up, gulped down his tea, and began his pacing. 

"I do think it would be a good plan, and we must do it if we can getthis person's leave--Yes, and do it quickly before we change our minds, or something interferes. Everyone would think we were perfectly mad, butas it suits us both, that is no one's business--Only--you are ratheryoung--and er--I don't know Greenbank. You are sure he is horrid?"

The girl clasped her hands together with force. 

"Sure! I should think so--He wears glasses, and has nasty, scrabbly bitsof fur on his face, which he thinks is a beard, and he is pompous and hetalks like this, " and she imitated a precise Boston voice. "'My dearSabine--have you considered, ' and he is lanky--and Oh! I detest him, andI can't imagine why I ever said I would marry him--but if I don't, what_am_ I to do with Aunt Jemima for four years! I should die of it. "

Michael sat on the edge of the table and looked at her long and deeply. He took in the childish picture she made in the big chair. He had nodefinite appreciation then of her charm, his mind was too fixed uponwhat seemed a prospect of certain escape from Violet Hatfield and hercunning thirty years of experience. This young thing could not interferewith him, and divorces in Scotland were not impossible things--theywould both gain what they wanted for the time, and it was a fairbargain. So he said, after a moment:

"I will go up to London to-morrow, and if it is as you say that you arefree to marry whom and when you will, I will try to get this oldlawyer's consent and a special license--But how about your Uncle? Has henot any legal right over you?"

Miss Delburg laughed contentedly. 

"Not in the least--only that I have to live with him until I am married. Mr. Parsons--that's the lawyer's name--hates him, and he hates Mr. Parsons. So I know Mr. Parsons will be delighted to spite him by givinghis consent, if you just say Uncle Mortimer is trying to force me into amarriage against my will with his nephew--Samuel Greenbank is hisnephew, you know--no relation to me. It is Aunt Jemima who is Papa'ssister. "

All this seemed quite convincing. Michael felt relieved. 

"I see, " he said. "Well, it appears simple enough. I believe I could beback by Thursday, and I could have my chaplain and a friend of mine, andwe could get the affair over in the chapel--and then you can go back tothe Inn with your certificate--and I can go to Paris--free!" And histhoughts added, "And even if poor Maurice does die soon, I need fearnothing!"

Now that their two fates seemed settled, Miss Delburg got out of thechair and stood up in a dignified way; her soft cheeks were the color ofa glowing pink rose, and her violet eyes shone with fun and excitement, her little, irregular features and perfect teeth seemed to add to theinfantine aspect of the picture she made in her unfashionable pinkcotton frock. Dress had been strongly discouraged at the Convent, andwas looked upon by Aunt Jemima, a strict New Englander, as a snare ofthe devil, but even the garment, in the selecting of which she had hadno hand, seemed to hang with grace upon the child's slim figure. 

Not a doubt as to the future clouded her thoughts; it was all a gloriouspiece of fun, and of all the daring tricks she had perpetrated at theConvent to get chocolates, or climb a tree, or have a midnight orgy ofcake and sirop, none had been so exciting as this--to go through theceremony of marriage and be free for life!

Her education had been of the most elementary, and the whole aim ofthose placed over her had been to keep her as innocent and ignorant as achild of ten. Not a single problem of life had ever presented itself toher naturally intelligent mind. She had read no books, conversed with nogrown-up people, played with no one but her companions, three Americangirls and a few French ones, and the simple Nuns. And since heremancipation, she had but wandered in the English lakes with her uncleand aunt and Samuel Greenbank, and so had come to Arranstoun like anyother tourist to see this famous castle still inhabited after elevenhundred years. 

In these days of women giving daily proof of their capability forirritating mischief, if not of their ability to rule nations, SabineDelburg was a very unique being, and could not have existed but for acombination of rare circumstances, as she was half American and halfFrench and had inherited the quick understanding of both nations. Butfrom the age of seven, she had never seen the outside world. It is notmy place, in any case, to explain what she was or was not. The creature, with all her faults and charms, is there to speak for herself--and ifyou, my friend, who are reading this tale on a summer's day do not feelyou want to hear any more of what happened to these two young things, byall means put down the book and go your way!

So let us get back to Mr. Arranstoun's sitting-room and the Juneafternoon, and we shall hear Miss Delburg saying, in her childish voiceof joy:

"Nothing could be better--I always did like doing mad things. It will bethe greatest fun! Think of their faces when I prance in and say I ammarried! Then I will snap my fingers at them and go off and see theworld. "

Michael knelt upon a low old _prie dieu_ which was near, and looked intoher face--while he asked, whimsically:

"I do wonder where you will begin. "

Miss Delburg now sat upon the edge of the table; this was a gravequestion and must be answered at leisure, though without indecision. 

"Oh, I know, " she announced. "There was my great friend, MoraviaCloudwater, at the Convent. She was older than me, and went to Pariswith her father and married an Italian prince last year. I have heardfrom her since, and she has often wanted me to go and stay with her inRome--and I shall now. Morri and I are the dearest friends--and herthings did look lovely the day she came to see us at Tours--with theprince's coronet on them--" and then the first shadow came to hercontentment. "That is the only pity about you--even with a castle, youhaven't a coronet, I suppose?" regretfully. "I should have liked one onmy handkerchiefs and note-paper. "

Michael felt his shortcomings. 

"The title was taken away when we followed Prince Charlie and we onlygot back the land by the skin of our teeth after an awful business so Iam afraid I cannot do that for you--but perhaps, " consolingly, "you willhave better luck next time. "

This brought some comfort. 

"Why, of course! we can get a divorce--as soon as we want. Moravia hadan aunt, who simply went to Sioux Falls and got one at once and marriedsomeone else, so it's not the least trouble. Oh, I am glad you havethought of this plan. It is clever of you!"

Mr. Arranstoun felt that he was becoming rather too interested inhis--_fiancée_ and time was passing. Her family might discover where shewas--or Henry might return; he must clinch matters finally. 

"I think we must come to business details now, " he said. "Had you notbetter write a letter to Mr. Parsons that I could take, stating yourwishes; and will you also write down upon another piece of paper all thedetails of your name, age--and so forth----"

He now showed her his writing-table and gave her paper and pens tochoose from. 

She sat down gravely, and put her hands to her head as one thinkinghard. Then she began rapidly to write--while Mr. Arranstoun watched herfrom the hearth-rug, to where he had retired. 

She evidently wrote out the statistics required first, and then beganher letter. And at last she turned a rogue's face with a perplexed frownon it, while she bit her pen. 

"How do you spell indigenous, please?"

He started forward. 

"'Indigenous'?--what a grand word!--i-n-d-i-g-e-n-o-u-s. "

"One has to be grand when writing business letters, " she told him, condescendingly, and then finished her missive. 

"There--that will do! Now listen!"

She got up and stood with the sheet in her hand, and read off theremarkable document without worrying much about stops or commas. 

 "Dear Mr. Parsons:

 "Papa said I could marry who I wanted to provided that he was decent, so please give your written consent to the _grand seigneur_ who brings this. His name is Arranstoun, and he is indigenous to this Castle, and really an aristocrat who papa and mamma would have approved of, although he unfortunately has no title----"

"I had to put in that, you see, " and she looked up explainingly, "because it sounds so ordinary if he'd never heard of Arranstoun--wewouldn't have, only Uncle Mortimer was looking out for old ruins tovisit--well, " and she continued her recital, while Michael lowered hishead to hide the smile in his eyes. 

 "We wish to get married on Thursday so please be quick about the consent, as Uncle Mortimer wants me to marry his nephew, Samuel Greenbank, who I hate. Agree, sir, the expression of my sentiments, the most distinguished

 "Sabine Delburg. "

 "P. S. I will want all my money, 50, 000 dollars a year I believe it is, on Friday morning. "

Then she looked up with pride. 

"Don't you think that will do?"

Michael was overcome--his voice shook with enchanted mirth. 

"Admirably, " he assured her, with what solemnity he could. 

Sabine seemed thoroughly satisfied with herself. 

"That's all right, then. Now I must be off, or they will be coming tolook for me, and that would be a bore. "

"But we have not made all the arrangements for our wedding. " Theprospective bridegroom thought it prudent to remind her. "When can youcome on Thursday? My train gets in about six. "

"Thursday, " and she contracted her dark eyebrows. "Let me see--Yes, weare staying until Saturday to see the remains of Elbank Monastery--but Idon't know how I can slip away, unless--only it would be so late. Icould say I had a headache and go to bed early without dinner, and gethere about eight while they were having theirs. It is still quitelight--I often had to pretend things at the Convent to get a moment'speace. "

Michael reflected. 

"Better not chance eight--as you say it is quite light then and theymight see you. Slip out of the hotel at nine. The park gate is, as youknow, right across the road. I will wait for you inside, and we can walkhere in a few minutes--and come up these balcony steps--and the chapelis down that passage--through this door. See. "

He went and opened the door, and she followed him--talking as shewalked. 

"Nine! Oh! that is late--I have never been out so late before--but itcan't matter--just this once--can it? And here in the north it is sofunny; it is light at nine, too! Perhaps it would be safest. " Then, peering down the vaulted passage and drawing back, "It is a gloomy holeto get married in!"

"You won't say so when you see the chapel itself, " he reassured her. "Itis rather a beautiful place. Whenever any of my ancestors committed aparticularly atrocious raid, and wanted to be absolved for their sins, they put in a window or a painting or carving. The family was Catholicuntil my grandfather's time, and then High Church, so the glories haveremained untouched. "

Sabine kept close to him as they walked, as a child afraid of the darkwould have done. It seemed to her too like her recent experience of thesecret passage, and then she exclaimed in a voice of frank awe andadmiration, when he opened the nail-studded, iron-bound door at the end:

"Oh! how divine!"

And it was indeed. A gem of the finest period of early Gothicarchitecture, adorned with all trophies which love, fear and contritioncould compel from the art of the ages. Glorious colored lights sweptdown in shafts from matchless stained glass, and the high altar was ablaze of richness, while beautiful paintings and tapestries covered thewalls. 

It was gorgeous and sumptuous, and unlike anything else in England orScotland. It might have been the private chapel of a proud, voluptuousCardinal in Rome's great days. 

"Why is that one little window plain?" Sabine asked. 

Then Michael answered with a cynical note in his voice:

"It is left for me--I, who am the last of them, to put up some expiatoryoffering, I expect. Rapine and violence are in the blood, " and then helaughed lightly, and led her back through the gloom to his sitting-room. There was a strange, fierce light in his bright blue eyes, which thechild-woman did not see, and which, if she had perceived, she would nothave understood any more than he understood it himself--for no concretethought had yet come to him about the future. Only, there underneath wasthat mighty force, relentless, inexorable, of heredity, causing theinstinct which had dominated the Arranstouns for eleven hundred years. 

He did not seek to detain his guest and promised bride--but, with greatcourtesy, he showed her the way down the stairs of the lawn, and sothrough the postern into the park, and he watched her slender form tripoff towards the gate which was opposite the Inn, her last words ringingin his ears in answer to his final question. 

"No, I shall not fail--I will leave the Crown at nine o'clock exactly onThursday. "

Then turning, he retraced his steps to his sitting-room, and there foundHenry Fordyce returned. 

CHAPTER III

"Well, old boy!" Mr. Fordyce greeted him with. "You should have beenwith me and had a good round of golf--but perhaps, though, you have madeup your mind!"

Michael flung himself into his great chair. 

"Yes--I have--and I have got a fiancée. "

Mr. Fordyce was not disturbed; he did not even answer this absurdremark, he just puffed his cigar--cigarettes were beneath his notice. 

"You don't seem very interested, " his host ejaculated, ratheraggrievedly. 

"Tommyrot!"

"I tell you, it is true. I have got a fiancée. "

"My dear fellow, you are mad!"

"No, I assure you I am quite sane--I have found a way out of thedifficulty--an angel has dropped from the clouds to save me from VioletHatfield. "

Henry Fordyce was actually startled. Michael looked as though he weretalking seriously. 

"But where did she come from? What the--Oh! I have no patience with you, you old fool! You are playing some comedy upon me!"

"Henry, I give you my word, I'm not--I am going to marry a mostpresentable young person at nine o'clock on Thursday night in the chapelhere--and you are going to stay and be best man. " Then his excitementbegan to rise again, and he got up from his chair and paced up and downrestlessly. "It is the very thing. She wants her money and I want myfreedom. She gets hers by marriage, and I get mine. I don't care a rushfor domestic bliss, it has never appealed to me; and the fellow inAustralia who'll come after me has got a boy who will do all right, nodoubt, for the old place by and by. I shall have a perfectly free timeand no responsibilities--and, thank the Lord! no more women for me forthe future. I have done with the snakes. I shall be happy and free forthe first time for a whole year!"

Mr. Fordyce actually let his cigar go out. This incredible story wasbeginning to have an effect upon him. 

"But where did she come from?" he asked blandly, as one speaks to aharmless imbecile. "I leave you here in an abject state of despair, ready almost to decide upon marrying old Bessie, and I return in an hourand you inform me everything is settled, and you are the fiancé ofanother lady! You know, you surprise me, Michael--'Pon my word, you do!"

Michael laughed, it was really a huge joke. 

"Yes, it is quite true. Well, just as I was going to ring and sendJames for Bessie to talk it over with her, there was no end of asmash--as you see--and a girl--a tourist--fell through the secret door. I haven't opened it for five years. She was running away from a horridfellow she was engaged to, it seems, and fled into the passage, and thedoor shut after her and she could not get out, so she pushed on inhere. "

"It adds dramatic color to the story, the girl being engaged to someoneelse--pray go on. "

Mr. Fordyce had now picked up his cigar again. This preposterous tale nolonger interested him. He thought it even rather bad taste on the partof his friend. 

"All right!" Michael explained. "You need not believe me if you don'tlike. I don't care, since I have done what I wanted to. Bar chaff, Henry, I am telling you the truth. The girl appears to be a young womanof decision. She explained at once her circumstances, and it struck usboth that to go through the ceremony of marriage would smooth all ourdifficulties. We can easily get the bond annulled later on. "

Henry Fordyce put down his cigar again. 

"I am off to town to-night. You won't mind, will you?" Michael went on. "Just to see if everything is all right, and to get her guardian'sconsent and a special license, and I shall be back by the six o'clocktrain on Thursday in time to get the ceremony over that night; and then, by the early morning express, if you'll wait till then, we'll go Southtogether, and so for Paris and freedom!"

Henry actually rose from his chair. 

"And the bride?" he asked. 

Michael laughed. "Oh, she may go to the moon, for all I care; she leavesdirectly after the ceremony with her certificate of marriage, which shemeans to brandish in the face of her relations, who are staying at theInn, and so exit out of my life! It is only an affair of expediency. "

"It is the affair of a madman. "

Michael frowned, and his firm chin looked aggressive. 

"It is nothing of the kind. You told me yourself that you would rathermarry old Bessie--a woman of eighty-four--than Violet Hatfield; and now, when I have found a much more suitable person--a pretty little lady--youbegin to talk. My mind is made up, and there is an end of it. "

Mr. Fordyce interrupted. 

"Bessie would have been much more suitable--a plain pretext; but youhave no idea what complications you may be storing up for yourself bymarrying a young girl--What is the sense in it?" he continued, a littleexcited now. "The younger and prettier she is makes her all the moreunsuitable to be used merely as a tool in your game. Confound it, Michael!"

"And her game, too, " his host reminded him. His eyes were flashing now, and that expression, which all his underlings knew meant he intended tohave his own will at any cost, grew upon his face. 

"You forget that in Scotland divorce is not an impossibility and--_I amgoing to do it, Henry_. Now, I had better write to old Fergusson, mychaplain, and tell him to be in readiness, and I suppose I ought to seemy lawyers in Edinburgh, although, as there are no settlements and it isjust between ourselves, perhaps it does not matter about them. "

"How old is the girl?" Mr. Fordyce felt it prudent to ask. "It is apretty serious thing you contemplate, you know. "

"Oh! rot!--she is seventeen, I believe--and for that sort of a marriageand mere business arrangement, her age is no consequence. "

Henry turned to the window and looked out for a moment, then he saidgravely:

"Is it quite fair to her?"

Michael had gone to his writing-table, and was busily scribbling to hischaplain, but he looked over his shoulder startled, and then a gleam ofblue fire came into his eyes, and his handsome mouth shut like a vise. 

"Of course, it is quite fair. She wishes to be free as much as I do. Shegets what she wants and I get what I want--a mere ceremony can beannulled at any time. She jumped at the idea, I tell you, Henry--I havenot got time to go into the pros and cons of that side of the question, and I don't want to hear your views or any one else's on the matter. Imean to marry the girl on Thursday night--and you can quite well put offgoing South until Friday morning, and see me through it. "

Mr. Fordyce prepared to go towards the door, and when there said, in avoice of ice:

"I shall do no such thing. I cannot prevent your doing this, Isuppose--taking advantage of a young girl for your own ends, it seems tome--so I shall go now. "

Michael's temper began to blaze with this, his oldest friend. 

"As you please, " he flashed. "But it is perfect rot, all this highpalaver. The girl gains by it as well as I. I am not taking the leastadvantage of her. I shall have to get her guardian's consent, and Isuppose he'll know what he is up to. I have never taken any one'sadvice, and I am not going to begin now, old boy--so we had better saygood-bye if you won't stop. "

He came over to the door, and then he smiled his radiant, irresistiblesmile so like a mischievous jolly boy's. 

"Give me joy, Henry, old friend, " he said, and held out his hand. 

But Henry Fordyce looked grave as a judge as he took it. 

"I can't do that, Michael. I am very angry with you. I have known youever since you were born, and we have been real pals, although I am somuch older than you--but I'm damned if I'll stay and see you throughthis folly. Good-bye. " And without a word further he went out of theroom, closing the door softly behind him. 

Michael gave a sort of whoop to Binko, who sprang at him in love andexcitement, while he cried:

"Very well! Get along, old saint!"

Then he rang the bell, and to the footman when he came he handed thenote he had written to be taken to Mr. Fergusson, and sent orders forJohnson to pack for two nights, and for his motor to be ready to catchthe 10:40 express at the junction for London town. Then he seized hiscap and, calling Binko, he went off into the garden, and so on to thepark and to the golf house, where, securing his professional, he playeda vigorous round, and when he got back to the castle again, just beforedinner, he was informed that Mr. Fordyce had left in his own motor forEdinburgh. 

CHAPTER IV

An opalescence of soft light and peace and beauty was over the park ofArranstoun on this June night of its master's wedding, and he walkedamong the giant trees to the South Lodge gate, only a few hundred yardsfrom the postern, which he reached from his sitting-room. All had gonewell in London. Mr. Parsons had raised no objection, being indeedgreatly flattered at the proposed alliance--for who had not heard of thefamous border Castle of Arranstoun and envied its possessor?

They had talked a long time and settled everything. 

"Tie up the whole of Miss Delburg's money entirely upon herself, " Mr. Arranstoun had said--"if it is not already done--then we need not botherabout settlements. I understand that she is well provided for. "

"And how about your future children?" Mr. Parsons asked. 

Michael stiffened suddenly as he looked out of the office window. 

"Oh--er, they will naturally have all I possess, " he returned quickly. 

And now as he neared the Lodge gate, and nine o'clock struck, asuppressed excitement was in his veins. For no matter how eventful yourlife may be, or how accustomed you are to chances and vivid amusements, to be facing a marriage ceremony with a practically unknown young womanhas aspects of originality in it calculated to set the pulses in motion. 

He had almost forgotten that side of the affair which meant freedom andsafety for him from the claws of the Spider--although he had learnedupon his return home from London that she had, as Henry Fordyce hadpredicted that she might, "popped in upon him, " having motored over fromEbbsworth, and had left him a letter of surprised, intense displeasureat his unannounced absence. 

When five minutes had passed, and there was as yet no sign of hispromised bride crossing the road from the Inn, Mr. Arranstoun began toexperience an unpleasant impatience. The quarter chimed--his temperrose--had she been playing a trick upon him and never intended at anytime to come? He grew furious--and paced the fine turf behind the Lodge, swearing hotly as was his wont when enraged. 

Then he saw a little figure wrapped in a gray dust cloak much too bigfor it advancing cautiously to the gate in the twilight, and he boundedforward to meet her and to open the narrow side-entrance before theLodge-keeper, Old Bessie, could have time to see who was there. 

"At last!" he cried, when they were safely inside and had gone a fewpaces along the avenue. "I was beginning to think you did not mean tokeep your word! I am glad you have come!"

"Why, of course I meant to keep my word. I never break it, " Sabine saidastonished. "I am longing to be free just like you are, but I had anawful business to get away! I have never been so excited in my life!Their train was late--some breakdown on the branch line--they did notget in until half-past eight, and I dare not be all dressed, but had topretend to be in bed, covered up, still with the awful headache, whenAunt Jemima bounced in. " Then she laughed joyously at the recollectionof her escape. "The moment she had gone off to her supper, tucking me upfor the night, I jumped up and got on my dress and hat and her dustcloak and then I had to watch my moment, creep down those funny littlestairs, and out of the side door--and so across here. You know it wasfar harder to manage than the last feast Moravia Cloudwater and I gaveto the girls the night before she went to Paris! Isn't it fun! I do likehaving these adventures, don't you?"

"Yes, " said Michael, and looked down into her face. 

She was extremely pretty, he thought, in the soft dusk of this Northernevening. Her leghorn hat with its wreath of blue forget-me-nots was mostbecoming and her brown hair was ruffled a little by the hat's hastydonning. 

[Illustration: "He bounded forward to meet her"]

"I needn't keep this old cloak on, need I?" she asked. "Nobody can seeus here and it is so hot. "

He helped her off with it and carried it for her. She looked prettierstill now, the slender lines of her childish figure were so exquisite intheir promise of beautiful womanhood later on, and the Sunday frock ofwhite foulard was most sweet. 

Michael was very silent; it almost made her nervous, but she prattledon. 

"This is my best frock, " she laughed, "because even though it is only abusiness arrangement, one couldn't get married in an old blouse, couldone?"

"Of course not!" and he strode nearer to her. "I am in evening dress, you see--just like a French bridegroom for those wedding parties in theBois! so we are both festive--but here we are at the postern door!"

He opened it with his key and they stole across the short lawn and upthe balcony steps like two stealthy marauders. Then he turned and heldout his hand to her in the blaze of electric light. 

"Welcome! Oh! it is good of you to have come!"

She shook hands frankly--it seemed the right thing to do, she felt, since they were going to oblige one another and both gain their desires. Then it struck her for the first time that he was a very handsome youngman--quite the Prince Charming of the girls' dreams. A thousand timesfiner than Moravia's Italian prince with whom for her part she had beenhorribly disappointed when she had seen his photograph. Only it was toosilly to consider this one in that light, since he wasn't really goingto be hers--only a means to an end. Oh! the pleasure to be free and richand to do exactly what she pleased! She had been planning all these dayswhat she would do. She would get back to the Inn not later than ten, andcreep quietly up to her room through that side door which was alwaysopen into the yard. The weather was so beautiful it would be nothing, even if the Inn people did see her entering--she might have been out fora stroll in the twilight. Then at six in the morning she would creep outagain and go to the station; there was a train which left for Edinburghat half-past--and there she would get a fast express to London later on, after a good breakfast; and once in London a cab would take her to Mr. Parsons', and after that!--money and freedom!

She had planned it all. She would leave a letter for her Uncle and Aunt, saying she was married and had gone and they need not trouble themselvesany more about her. Mr. Parsons would tell her where to stay and helpher to get a good maid like Moravia had, and then she would go to Parisjust as Moravia had done and buy all sorts of lovely clothes; it wouldtake her perhaps a whole month, and then when she was a very grand, grown-up lady, she would write to her dear friend and say now she wasready to accept her invitation to go and stay with her! And whatabsolute joy to give Moravia such a surprise! to say she was married andfree! and had quite as nice things as even that Princess! It was all asimply glorious picture--and but for this kind young man it could neverhave been hers--but her fate would have been--Samuel Greenbank or AuntJemima for four years! It was no wonder she felt grateful to him! andthat her handshake was full of cordiality. 

Michael pulled himself together rather sharply, the blood was nowrunning very fast in his veins. 

"Wait here, " he said to her, "while I go into the chapel to see if Mr. Fergusson and the two witnesses are ready. "

They were--Johnson and Alexander Armstrong--and the old chaplain who hadbeen Michael's father's tutor and was now an almost doddering oldnonentity also stood waiting in his white surplice at the altar rails. 

The candles were all lit and great bunches of white lilies gave forth aheavy scent. A strange sense of intoxication rose to Michael's brain. When he returned to his sitting-room he found his bride-to-be arrangingher hat at the old mirror which had reflected her before. 

"Won't you take it off?" he suggested--"and see, I have got you someflowers----" and he brought her a great bunch of stephanotis which laywaiting upon a table near. 

"There is no orange-blossom--because that is for real weddings--butwon't you just put this bit of stephanotis in your hair?" and he brokeoff a few blooms. 

She was delighted, she loved dressing up, and she fixed it mostbecomingly with dexterous fingers above her left ear. 

"You do look sweet, " he told her. "Now we must come----" and he gave herhis arm. She took it with that grave look of a child acting in a veryserious grown-up play. She was perfectly delicious with her bloomingyouth and freshness and dimples--her violet eyes shining like stars, andher red full lips pouting like appetizing ripe cherries. Michaeltrembled a little as he felt her small hand upon his arm. 

They walked to the altar rails and the ceremony began. 

But, with the first words of the old clergyman's voice, a new andunknown excitement came over Sabine. The night and the gorgeous chapeland the candles and the flowers all affected her deeply, just as thegrand feast days used to do at the convent. A sudden realization of themystery of things overcame her and frightened her, so that her voice washardly audible as she repeated the clergyman's words. 

What were these vows she was making before God? She dared notthink--the whole thing was a maze, a dream. It was too late to runaway--but it was terrible--she wanted to scream. 

At last she felt her bridegroom place the ring upon her finger, now icecold. 

And then she was conscious that she was listening to these words:

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. "

After that she must have reeled a little, for she felt a strong armencircle her waist for a moment. 

Then she knew she was kneeling and that words of no meaning whateverwere being buzzed over her head. 

And lastly she was vividly awakened to burning consciousness by thefirst man's kiss which had ever touched her innocent lips. 

So she was married--and this was her husband, this splendid, beautifulyoung man there beside her in his evening clothes--and it was over--andshe was going away and would never see him again--and what had shedone?--and would God be very angry?--since it was all really in achurch!

Her hand trembled as she wrote her name, Sabine Delburg, for the lasttime, and she was shivering all over as she walked back with hernewly-made husband to his sitting-room through the gloomy corridor. There it was all brilliant light again, the light of soft silk-shadedlamps--and the center table was cleared and supper for two and openedchampagne awaited them. They were both very pale, and Sabine sat down ina chair. 

"Mr. Fergusson will bring a copy of the certificate in a minute, "Michael said to her, "and then we can have some supper--but now, come, we must drink each other's healths. "

He poured out the wine into two glasses and handed her one. She hadnever tasted champagne before--but sipped it as she was bid. It did notseem to her a very nice drink--not to be compared to _sirop auxfraises_--but she knew at weddings people always had champagne. 

Michael gulped down a bumper, and it steadied his nerves and the fresh, vigorously healthy color came back to his face. The whole situation hadexcited his every sense. 

"Let me wish you all joy--Mrs. --Arranstoun!" he said. 

The little bride laughed her rippling laugh. This brought her back toearth and the material, jolly side of things, it was so funny to hearherself thus called. 

"Oh! that does sound odd!" she cried. "I shall never call myselfthat--why, people might know I must be something connected with thiscastle, and they would be questioning, and I couldn't have a scrap offun! You have got another name--you said it just now, 'Michael HowardArranstoun'--that will do. I shall be Mrs. Howard! It is quiteordinary--and shall I be a widow? I've never thought of all this yet. Oh! it will be fun. "

Every second of the time her charm was further affecting Michael--he wasnot conscious of any definite intention--only to talk to her--to detainher as long as possible. She was like a breath of exquisite spring airafter Violet Hatfield. 

Mr. Fergusson here came in from the chapel with the certificate--and hispresence seemed a great bore, and after thanking him for his services, Michael poured him out some wine to drink their healths, and then thebutler announced that the brougham was waiting at the door to take theold gentleman home. 

Sabine had stood up on his entrance and came forward to wish himgood-bye; now that the certificate was there she intended to go herselfby the balcony steps as soon as he should be safely off by the door. 

"Good-bye, my dear young lady, I have known your husband since he wasborn, and with all his faults he is a splendid fellow; let me wish youevery happiness and prosperity together and may you be blessed with manychildren and peace. "

Sabine stiffened--she felt she ought to enlighten the benevolent oldman, who evidently did not understand at all that she was going to tripoff--not as he, just to her own home, but out of Mr. Arranstoun's lifeforever--but no suitable words would come, and Michael, afraid of whatshe might say, hurried his chaplain off without more ado and thenreturned to her and shut the door. 

Now they were absolutely alone and the clock struck ten in the courtyardwith measured strokes. 

"Let us begin supper, " he said, with what calmness he could. 

"But I ought to go back at once, " his bride protested; "the Inn may beshut and then what in the world should I do?"

"There is plenty of time, it certainly won't close its doors untileleven--have some soup--or a cold quail and some salad--and see, I havenot forgotten the wedding-cake--you must cut that!"

Sabine was very hungry; she had had to pretend her head was aching toomuch to go with her elders to the ruins of Elbank and had retired to herroom before they left, and had had no tea, and such dainties were not tobe resisted, especially the cake! After all, it could not be any harmstaying just this little while longer since no one would ever know, andpeople who got married always did cut their own cakes. So she sat downand began, he taking every care of her. They had the merriest supper, and even the champagne, more of which he gave her, did not taste sonasty after the first sip. 

She had quail and salad and a wonderful ice--better than any, even onthe day of the holiday for Moravia's wedding far away in Rome; andthere were marrons glacés, too, and other divine bon-bons--andstrawberries and cream!

She had never enjoyed herself so much in her whole life. Her perfectlyinnocent prattle enchanted Michael more and more with its touches ofshrewd common sense. He drank a good deal of champagne, too--andfinally, when it came to cutting the cake time, a wild thought began toenter his head. 

The icing was rather hard, and he had to help her--and stood beside her, very near. 

She looked up smilingly and saw something in his face. It caused her asudden wild emotion of she knew not what--and then she felt very nervousand full of fear. 

She moved abruptly away from him to the other side of the table, leavingthe cake--and stood looking at him with great, troubled, violet eyes. 

He followed her. 

"You little, sweet darling!" he whispered, his voice very deep. "Whyshould you ever go away from me--I want to teach you to love me, Sabine. You belong to me, you know--you are mine. I shall not let you leave me!I shall keep you and hold you close!"

And he clasped her in his arms. 

For he was a man, you see--and the moment had come!

CHAPTER V

FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS

Mr. Elias Cloudwater came up the steps of the Savoy Hotel at Carlsbad, and called to the Arab who was waiting about:

"Has the Princess come in from her drive yet?"

He was informed that she had not, and he sat down in the verandah towait. He was both an American gentleman and an American father, therefore he was accustomed to waiting for his women folk and did notfidget. He read the _New York Herald_, and when he had devoured theshare list, he glanced at the society news and read that, among otherswho were expected at the Bohemian health resort that day, was LordFordyce, motoring, for a stay of three weeks for the cure. 

He did not know this gentleman personally, and the fact would not havearrested his attention at all only that he chanced to be interested inEnglish politics. He wondered vaguely if he would be an agreeableacquisition to the place, and then turned to more thrilling things. Presently a slender young woman came down the path through the woods andleisurely entered the gate. Mr. Cloudwater watched her, and a kindlysmile lit his face. He thought how pretty she was, and how glad he wasthat she had joined Moravia and himself again this summer. The monthswhen she went off by herself to her house in Brittany always seemed verylong. He saw her coming from far enough to be able to take in everydetail about her. Extreme slenderness and extreme grace were herdistinctive marks. The face was childish and rounded in outline, butwhen you looked into the violet eyes there was some shadow of a storyhidden there. She was about twenty-two years old, and was certainly notat Carlsbad for any reasons of cure, for her glowing complexion told atale of radiant health. 

Her white clothes were absolutely perfect in their simplicity, and sowas her air of unconcern and indifference. "The enigma" her friendsoften called her. She seemed so frank and simple, and no one ever gotbeyond the wall of what she was really thinking--what did she do withher life? It seemed ridiculous that any one so rich and attractive andyoung should care to pass long periods of time at a wild spot nearFinisterre, in an old château perched upon the rocks, completely alonebut for an elderly female companion. 

There was, of course, some hidden tragedy about her husband--who was araging lunatic or an inebriate shut up somewhere--perhaps there! Theyhad had to part at once--he had gone mad on the wedding journey, somebelieved, but others said this was not at all the case, and that she hadmarried an Indian chief and then parted from him immediately inAmerica--finding out the horror of being wedded to a savage. No one knewanything for a fact, only that when she did come into the civilizedworld, it was always with the Princess Torniloni and her father, who, ifthey knew the truth of Mrs. Howard's story, never gave it away. Menswarmed around her, but she appeared completely unconcerned and friendlywith them all, and not even the most envious of the other Americans whowere trying to climb into Princess Torniloni's exclusive society hadever been able to make up any scandals about her. 

"I have had such an enchanting walk, Clowdy, dear, " the slim young womansaid as she sat down in a basket-chair near Mr. Cloudwater. "I am soglad we came here, aren't you?--and I am sure it will do Moravia no endof good. She passed me as I was coming from the Aberg on her way to HansHeiling, so she will not be in yet. Let us have tea. "

The Arab called the waiter, who brought it to them. One or two otherlittle groups were having some, too, but Mr. Cloudwater's party weresingularly ungregarious, and avoided making acquaintances in hotels. Heand Mrs. Howard chatted alone together over theirs for about half anhour. Presently there was the noise of a motor arriving. It whirled intothe gate and stopped where they usually do, a little at one side. Itwas very dusty and travel-stained, and beside the chauffeur there gotout a tall, fair Englishman. The personnel of the hotel came forward tomeet him with empressement, and as he passed where Mr. Cloudwater andMrs. Howard were sitting, they heard him say:

"My servant brought the luggage by train this morning, so I suppose therooms are ready. "

"They are a wonderful race, " Mr. Cloudwater remarked, "aren't they, Sabine. I never can understand why you should so persistently avoidthem--they really have much more in common with ourselves than Latins. "

"That is why perhaps--one likes contrasts--and French and Russians, orGermans, are far more intelligent. Every one to his taste!" and Mrs. Howard smiled. 

The Englishman came out again in a few minutes, and sitting down lazily, as though he were alone upon the balcony terrace, he ordered some tea. Not the remotest scrap of interest in his surroundings or companions litup his face. He might have been forty or forty-two, perhaps, but beingso fair he looked a good deal younger, and had a peculiar distinction ofhis own. 

"That is what I object to about them, " Mrs. Howard remarked presently, "their abominable arrogance. Look at that man. It is just as thoughthere was no one else on this balcony but himself--no one else existsfor him!"

"Why, Sabine, you are severe! He looks to me to be a prettyconsiderably nice man--and he is only reading the paper as I have beendoing myself, " Mr. Cloudwater rejoined. "Perhaps he is the Englishnobleman who I read was expected to-day--Lord Fordyce, the papersaid--and wasn't that the name of rather a prominent English politicianwho had to go into the Upper House last year when his father died--andit was considered he would be a loss to the Commons?"

"I really don't know. I don't take the slightest interest in them ortheir politics. Ah! here is Moravia----" and both rose to meet a verycharming lady who drove up in a victoria and got out. 

She had all the perfection of detail which characterizes the verybest-dressed American woman--and she had every attraction except, perhaps, a voice--but even that she knew how to modulate and disguise, so that it was no wonder that the Princess Torniloni passed for one ofthe most beautiful women in Rome or Paris, or Cairo or New York, whenever she graced any of the cities with her presence. She was awidow, too, and very rich. The Prince, her husband, had been dead fornearly two years, and she was wearing grays and whites and mauves. 

He had been a brute, too, but unlike her friend, Mrs. Howard's husband, he had had the good taste to be killed riding in a steeplechase, and soall went well, and the pretty Princess was free to wander the world overwith her indulgent father. 

"It is just too lovely for words up in those woods, papa, " she said, "and I have had my tea in a dear little châlet restaurant. You did notwait for me, I hope?"

They assured her they had not done so, and she sat down in a comfortablechair. Her arrival caused a flutter among the other occupants of theterrace, and even the Englishman glanced up. This group had at last madesome impression it would seem upon the retina of his eye, for he lookeddeliberately at them and realized that the two women were quite worthyof his scrutiny. 

"But I hate Americans, " he said to himself. "They are such actresses, you never know where you are with them--these two, though, appear someof the best. "

Presently they went into the hotel, passing him very closely--and for asecond his eyes met the violet ones of Sabine Howard, and he wasconscious that he felt distinctly interested, much to his disgust. 

But, after all, he was here for a cure and a rest, and he had alwaysbelieved in women as recreations. 

His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant, and later he wroteto his friend, Michael Arranstoun, loitering at Ostende:

 The hotel is quite decent--and after your long sojourn in the wilds, you will have an overdose of polo and expensive ladies and baccarat. You had much better join me here at the end of the week. There are two pretty women who would be quite your affair. They have the next table, and neither of them can be taking the cure. 

But Mr. Arranstoun, when he received this missive, had other things todo. He had been out of England, and indeed Europe, for nearly fiveyears--having, in the summer of 1907, joined a friend to explore theinnermost borders of China and Tibet, and there the passion for thiskind of thing had overtaken him, and his own home knew him no more. 

Now, however, he had announced that he had returned for good, andintended to spend the rest of his days at Arranstoun as a modellandlord. 

He started this by playing polo at Ostende, where he had run acrossHenry Fordyce. They had cordially grasped each other's hands, theirestrangement forgotten when face to face; and the only mention there hadbeen of the circumstances which had caused their parting were in a fewsentences. 

"By Jove, Henry, it is five whole years since you thundered morals at meand shook the dust of Arranstoun from your feet!"

"You did behave abominably, Michael--but I am awfully glad to seeyou--and the scene at Ebbsworth, when Violet Hatfield read the notice inthe Scotsman of your marriage, made me feel you had been almostjustified in taking any course you could to make yourself safe. But howabout your wife? Have you ever seen her again?"

"No. My lawyer tells me I can divorce her now for desertion. I shouldhave to make some pretence of asking her to return to me, he says, whichof course she would refuse to do--and then both can be free, but, for mypart, I am not hankering after freedom much--I do very well as I am--andI always cherish a rather tender recollection of her. "

[Illustration: "His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant"]

Henry laughed. 

"I have often pictured that wedding, " he said, "and the little bridegoing off with her certificate and your name all alone. No family turnedup awkwardly at the last moment to mar things; she left safely after theceremony, eh?"

Michael looked away suddenly, and then answered with overdone unconcern:

"Yes--soon after the ceremony. "

"I do wonder you had no curiosity to investigate her character further!"

"I had--but she did not appreciate my interest--and--after she hadgone--I was rather in a bad temper, and I reasoned myself into believingshe was probably right--also just then I wanted to join LatimerBerkeley's expedition to China. I remember, his letter about it came bythe next morning's post--so I went--but do you know, Henry, I believethat little girl made some lasting impression upon me. I believe, if shehad stayed, I should have been frantically in love with her--but shewent, so there it is!"

"Why don't you try to find her?" Henry asked. 

"Perhaps I mean to some day. I have thought of doing so often, butfirst China, and then one thing and another have stopped me--besides, she may have fancied some other fellow by this time--the whole thing wasone of those colossal mistakes. If we could only have metordinarily--and not married in a hurry and then parted--like that. "

"Has it never struck you she was rather young to be left to drift byherself?"

"Yes, often--" Then Michael grew a little constrained. "I believe Ibehaved like the most impossible brute, Henry--in marrying her at all asyou said--but I would like to make it up to her some day--and I supposeif, by chance, she has taken a fancy to someone else by this time andwants to be free of me, I ought to divorce her--but, by Heaven, Ibelieve I should hate that!"

"You dog in the manger!"

"Yes, I am----"

And so the subject had ended. 

And now Henry, third Lord Fordyce, was taking a mild cure at Carlsbad, and had decided that in his leisure moments he would begin to write abook--a project which had long simmered in his brain; but after two daysof sitting by the American party at each meal, a very strong desire toconverse with them--especially the one with the strange violeteyes--overcame him; and with deliberate intention he scrapedacquaintance with Mr. Cloudwater in the exercise room of the Kaiserbad, who, with polite ceremony, presented him that evening to his daughterand her friend. 

Sabine had been particularly silent and irritating, Moravia thought, andas they went up to bed she scolded her about it. 

"He is a perfect darling, Sabine, " she declared, "and will do splendidlyto take walks with us and make the fourth. He is so lazy and English andphlegmatic--I'd like to make him crazy with love--but he looked at you, you little witch, not at me at all. "

"You are welcome to him, Morri--I don't care for Englishmen. Good-night, pet, " and Mrs. Howard kissed her friend, and going in to her room, sheshut the door. 

CHAPTER VI

More than a week went by, and it seemed quite natural now to LordFordyce to shape his days according to the plans of the American party, and when they met at the Schlossbrunn in the morning at half-past seven, and he and Mr. Cloudwater and the Princess had drunk their tumblers ofwater together, their custom was to go on down to the town and therefind Sabine, who had bought their slices of ham and their rolls, andawaited them at the end of the Alte Weise with the pink paper bags, andthen the four proceeded to walk to the Kaiser Park to breakfast. 

This meal was so merry, Mrs. Howard tantalizing the others by havingcream in her coffee and sugar upon her wild strawberries, while theywere only permitted to take theirs plain. 

During the stroll there it was Sabine's custom persistently to adhere tothe side of Mr. Cloudwater, leaving the other two tête-à-tête--and, delightful as Lord Fordyce found the Princess, this irritated him. Hediscovered himself, as the days advanced, to be experiencing a distinctlonging to know what was passing in that little head, whose violet eyeslooked out with so much mystery and shadow in their depths. He could nottell himself that she avoided him; she was always friendly and casualand perfectly at her ease, but no extra look of pleasure or welcome forhim personally ever came into her face, and never once had he been ableto speak to her really alone. Mr. Cloudwater and the two ladies droveback from breakfast each day, and he was left to take his exercises andhis bath. Now and then he had encountered the Princess in the near woodsjust before luncheon, returning from the Kaiserbad, but Mrs. Howardnever--and when he inquired how she spent her time, she replied howevershe happened to fancy, which gave him no clue as to where he might findher--and with all her frank charm, she was not a person to whom it waseasy to put a direct question. Lord Fordyce began to grow too interestedfor his peace of mind. When he realized this, he got very angry withhimself. He had never permitted a woman to be anything but a mildrecreation in his life, and at forty it was a little late to begin toexperience something serious about one. 

They often motored in the afternoon to various resorts not too fardistant, and there took tea; and for two whole days it had been wet and, except at meals, the ladies had lain _perdues_. 

However fate was kind on a Saturday morning, and allowed Lord Fordyceto chance upon Mrs. Howard, right up at the Belvedere in the far woods, looking over the valley. She was quite alone, and her slender figure wasoutlined against the bright sunlight as she leaned on the balustradegazing down at the exquisite scene. 

Henry could have cried aloud in joy, "At last!" but he restrainedhimself, and instead only said a casual "Hullo!" Mrs. Howard turned andlooked at him, and answered his greeting with frank cordiality. 

"Have you never been here before? I think it is one of the most lovelyspots in the whole woods, and at this time there is never any one--whatmade you penetrate so far?"

"Good fortune! The jade has been unkind until now. "

They leant on the balustrade together. 

"I always like being up on a high mountain and looking down at things, don't you?" she said. 

"No, not always--one feels lonely--but it is nice if one is with asuitable companion. How have you, at your age, managed to becomeself-sufficing?"

"Circumstance, I expect, has taught me the beauty of solitude. I spendmonths alone in Brittany. "

"And what do you do--read most of the time?"

He was so enchanted that she was not turning the conversation into banalthings, he determined not to say anything which would cause her againto draw down the blind of bland politeness. 

"Yes, I read a great deal. You see, Moravia and I were at a conventtogether, and there, beyond teaching us to spell and to write and do afew sums and learn a garbled version of French history, a little music, and a great deal of embroidery, they left us totally ignorant--one musttry to supply the deficiencies oneself. It is appalling to remainignorant once one realizes that one is. "

"Knowledge on any subject is interesting--did you begin generally--ordid you specialize?"

"I always wanted to be just--and to understand things. The whole of lifeand existence seemed too difficult--I think I began trying to find somekey to that and this opened the door to general information, and soeventually, perhaps, one specializes. "

He was wise enough not to press the question into what her specializingran. He adored subtleties, and he noted with delight that she was not socompletely indifferent as usual. If he could keep her attention for alittle while, they might have a really interesting investigation of eachother's thoughts. 

"I like thinking of things, too--and trying to discover their meaningsand what caused them. We are all, of course, the victims of heredity. "

"That may be, " she agreed, "but the will can control any heredity. Itcan only manifest itself when we let ourselves drift. The tragedy of itis that we have drifted too far sometimes before we learn that we couldhave directed the course if we had willed. Ignorance is seemingly themost cruel foe we have to encounter, because we are so defenseless, notknowing he is there. "

She sighed unconsciously and looked out over the beautiful tree-tops, down to where the Kaiser Park appeared like a little doll's châlet setamong streams and pastures green. 

Lord Fordyce was much moved. She was prettier and sweeter than he hadeven fancied she would be could he ever contrive to find her all alone. He watched her covertly; the exquisite peachy skin with its pure color, and her soft brown hair dressed with a simplicity which he thoughtperfection, all appealed to him, and those strange violet eyes ratherround and heavily lashed with brown-shaded lashes, darker at the tips. The type was not intense or of a studious mould. Circumstance mustindeed have formed an exotic character to have grafted such deep meaningin their innocent depths. She went on presently, not remarking hissilence. 

"It is heredity which makes my country women so nervous and unstable asa rule. You don't like them, as I know, " and she smiled, "and I think, from your point of view, you are right. You see, we are nearly allmushroom growths, sprung up in a night--and we have not had time forpoise, or the acceptance with calmness of our good fortune. We are asyet unbalanced by it, and don't know what we want. "

"You are very charming, " and he looked truthful, and at that moment feltso. 

"Yes, I know--we can be more charming than any other women because wehave learnt from all the other nations and play which ever part we wishto select. "

"Yes, " he admitted, rather too quickly--and her rippling laugh rang out. He had hardly ever heard her laugh, and it enchanted him, even though hewas nettled at her understanding of his thought. 

"It remains for men to make us desire to play the same part always--ifthey find it agreeable. "

Again he said "Yes"--but this time slowly. 

"Now you Englishmen have the heredity of absolute phlegm to fight. Whilewe ought to be trying to counteract jumping from one rôle to another, you ought to try to teach yourselves that versatility is a good thing, too, in its way. "

"I am sure it is. I wish you would teach me to understand it--but youyourself seem to be restful and stable. How have you achieved this?"

"By studying the meaning of things, I suppose, and checking myself everytime I began to want to do the restless things I saw my countrywomendoing. We have wonderful wills, you know, and if we want a thingsufficiently, we can get anything. That is why Moravia says we make suchsuccessful great ladies in the different countries we marry into. Yourgreat ladies, if they are nice, are great naturally, and if they arenot, they often fail, even if they are born aristocrats. We do not oftenfail, because we know very well we are taking on a part, and must playit to the very best of our ability all the time--and gradually we playit better than if it were natural. "

"What a little cynic! 'Out of the mouths of babes'!" and he laughed. 

"I am not at all a cynic! It is the truth I am telling you. I admire andrespect our methods far more than yours, which just 'growed' likeTopsy!"

"But cynicism and truth are, unfortunately, synonymous. Only you are tooyoung, and ought not to know anything about either!"

"I like to know and do things I ought not to!" Her eyes were merry. 

"Tell me some more about your countrywomen. I'm awfully interested, andhave always been too frightened of their brilliancy to investigatemyself. "

"We are not nearly so bothered with hearts as Europeans--heredity again. Our mothers and fathers generally sprang from people working too hard tohave great emotions--then we arrive, and have every luxury poured uponus from birth; and if we have hardy characters we weather the deluge andremain very decent citizens. "

"And if you have not?"

"Why, naturally the instincts for hard work, which made our parentssucceed, if they remain idle must make some explosion. So we growrestless in our palaces, and get fads and nerves and quaintdiseases--and have to come to Carlsbad--and talk to sober Englishmen!"The look of mischief which she vouchsafed him was perfectly adorable. Hewas duly affected. 

"You take us as a sort of cure!"

"Yes----!"

"How do you know so much about us and our faults? I gathered, from whatyou said last night at dinner, that you have never been in England butonce, for a month, when you were almost a child. "

"The rarest specimens come abroad, " and a dimple showed in her leftcheek, "and I read about you in your best novels--even your authorsunconsciously give you away and show your selfishness and arrogance andself-satisfaction. "

"Shocking brutes, aren't we?"

"Perfectly. "

Then they both laughed, and Sabine suggested it was time they returnedto luncheon. 

"It is quite two miles from here, and Mr. Cloudwater, although thekindest dear old gentleman, begins to get hungry at one o'clock. "

So they turned and sauntered downwards through the lovely green woods, with the warm hum of insects and the soft summer, glancing sunshine. Andall of you who know the beauties of Carlsbad, or indeed any other ofthose Bohemian spas, can just picture how agreeable was their walk, andhow conducive to amiable discussion and the acceleration of friendship. Henry tried to get her to tell him some more of the secrets of hercountrywomen, but she would not be serious. She was in a merry mood, andturned the fire into the enemy's camp, making him disclose the ways ofEnglishmen. 

"I believe you like us as a rule because we are such casual creatures!"he said at last, "rather indifferent about _petits soins_, and apt toseize what we desire, or take it for granted. "

A sudden shadow came into her face which puzzled him, and she did notanswer, but went on to talk of Brittany and the place which she hadbought. Héronac--just a weird castle perched right upon a rock above afishing village, with the sea dashing at its base and the spray risingright to her sitting-room windows. 

"I have to go across a causeway to my garden upon the main land--andwhen it is very rough, I get soaking wet--it is the wildest place youever saw. "

"What on earth made you select it?" Lord Fordyce asked. "You, who looklike a fresh rose, to choose a grim brigand's stronghold as aresidence!"

"It suited my mood on the day I first saw it--and I bought it thefollowing week. I make up my mind in a minute as to what I want. "

"You must let me motor past and look at it, " he pleaded, "and when mytwenty-one days of drinking this uninteresting water is up, I intendgoing back in my car to Paris, and from there down to see Mont St. Michel. "

"You shall not only look at it--you may even come in--if you are niceand do not bore me between now and then, " and she glanced up at himslyly. "I have an old companion, Madame Imogen Aubert--who lives with methere--and she always hopes I shall one day have visitors!"

Lord Fordyce promised he would be a pure sage, and if she would put himon probation, and really take pains to sample his capabilities of notboring in a few more walks, he would come up for judgment at Héronacwhen it was her good pleasure to name a date. 

"I shall be there toward the middle of August. After we leave here, thePrincess and dear Cloudie go to Italy with her little son, the babyTorniloni: he is such a darling, nearly three years old--he is atHéronac now with his nurses. "

"And you go back to Brittany alone?"

"Yes----"

"Then I shall come, too. "

"If, at the end of your cure, you have not bored me!"

By this time they had got down to the Savoy gate--and there foundMoravia and Mr. Cloudwater waiting for them on the balcony--clamoringfor lunch. 

Princess Torniloni gave a swift, keen glance at the two who hadentered, but she did not express the thought which came to her. 

"It is rather hard that Sabine, who does not want him and is not free tohave him, should have drawn him instead of me. "

That night in the restaurant there came in and joined their party one ofthose American men who are always to be met with in Paris or Aix orCarlsbad or Monte Carlo, at whatever in any of these places representsthe Ritz Hotel, one who knew everybody and everything, a person of noparticular sex, but who always would make a party go with his storiesand his gaiety, and help along any hostess. Cranley Beaton was thisone's name. The Cloudwater party were all quite glad to welcome him andhear news of their friends. One or two decent people had arrived thatafternoon also, and Moravia felt she could be quite amused and wear herpretty clothes. Sabine hated the avalanches of dinners and lunches andwhat not this would mean. Her sense of humor was very highly developed, and she often laughed in a fond way over her friend, who was, in hersearch for pleasure, still as keen as she had been in convent days. 

"You do remain so young, Morri!" she told her, as they linked arms goingup to bed. Their rooms were on the first floor, and they disdained thelift. "Do you remember, you used to be the mother to all of us at St. Anne's--and now I am the mother of us two!"

"You are an old, wise-headed Sibyl--that is what you are, darling!" thePrincess returned. "I wish I could ever know what has so utterly changedyou from our convent days, " and she sighed impatiently. "Then you werethe merriest madcap, ready to tease any one and to have any lark, andfor nearly these four years since we have been together again you havebeen another person--grave and self-possessed. What are you alwaysthinking of, Sabine?"

They had reached their sitting-room, and Mrs. Howard went to the windowand opened it wide. 

"I grew up in one year, Moravia--I grew a hundred years old, and all thestudies which I indulge in at Héronac teach me that peace and poise arethe things to aim at. I cannot tell you any more. "

"I did not mean to probe into your secrets, darling, " the Princessexclaimed hastily. "I promised you I never would when you came to methat November in Rome--we were both miserable enough, goodness knows! Wemade the bargain that there should be no retrospects. And your angelicgoodness to me all that time when my little Girolamo was born, have mademe your eternal debtor. Why, but for you, darling, he might have beensnatched from me by the hateful Torniloni family!"

"The sweet cherub!"

Then their conversation turned to this absorbing topic, the perfectionsof Girolamo! and as it is hardly one which could interest you or me, myfriend, let us go back to the smoking-room and listen to a conversationgoing on between Cranley Beaton and Lord Fordyce. The latter, with greatskill, had begun to elicit certain information he desired from thissociety register!

"Yes, indeed, " Mr. Beaton was saying. "She is a peach--The husband"--andhe looked extremely wise. "Oh! she made some frightful mésalliance outWest, and they say he's shut in a madhouse or home for inebriates. Herentrance among us dates from when she first appeared in Paris, aboutthree years ago, with Princess Torniloni. She is awfully rich andawfully good, and it is a real pity she does not divorce the ruffian andbegin again!"

"She is not free, then?" and Lord Fordyce felt his heart sink. "Ithought, probably, she had got rid of any encumbrance, as it is fairlyeasy over with you. "

"Why, she could in a moment if she wanted to, I expect, " Mr. Beatonassured his listener. "She hasn't fancied anyone else yet; when shedoes, she will, no doubt. "

"Her husband is an American, then?"

"Why, of course--didn't I tell you she came from the West? Why, Iremember crossing with her. She was in deep mourning--in the summer of1908. She never spoke to anyone on board, and it was about eighteenmonths after that I was presented to her in Paris. She gets prettierevery day. "

Lord Fordyce felt this was true. 

"So she could be free if she fancied anyone, you think?" he hazardedcasually, as though his interest in the subject had waned--and when Mr. Beaton had answered, "Yes--rather, " Lord Fordyce got up and saunteredoff toward bed. 

"One has to be up so early in the morning, here, " he remarked agreeably. "See you to-morrow at the Schlossbrunn?--Good-night!"

CHAPTER VII

After this, for several days Mrs. Howard made it rather difficult forLord Fordyce to speak to her alone, although he saw her every day, andat every meal, and each hour grew more enamored. She, for her part, wascertainly growing to like him. He soothed her; his intelligence washighly trained, and he was courteous and gentle and sympathetic--but forsome reason which she could not explain, she had no wish to precipitatematters. Her mind was quite without any definite desire ordetermination, but, being a woman, she was perfectly aware that Henrywas falling in love with her. A number of other men had done so before, and had then at once begun to be uninteresting in her eyes. It was as ifshe were numb to the attraction of men--but this one had qualities whichappealed to her. Her own countrymen were never cultivated enough inliterature, and were too absorbed in stocks and shares to be able totake flights of sentiment and imagination with her. Lord Fordyceunderstood in a second--and they could discuss any subject with arefined subtlety which enchanted her. 

Henry had not spent his life maneuvring love affairs with women, andwas not very clever at manipulating circumstance. He fretted and fumedat not getting his desired tête-à-tête, but with all the will was toohedged in by conventionality and a sense of politeness to force matters, as his friend, Michael Arranstoun, would have done with high-handedunconcern. Thus, his cure at Carlsbad was drawing to a close before heagain spent an afternoon quite alone with Sabine Howard. They had goneto the Aberg to tea, and the Princess had expressed herself too tired towalk back, and had got into the waiting carriage, making Cranley Beatonaccompany her. She was not in a perfectly amiable temper. Lord Fordyceattracted her strongly, and it was plain to be seen he had only eyes forSabine--who cared for him not at all. The Princess found Cranley Beatonabsolutely tiresome--no better than the _New York Herald_, she thoughtpettishly, or the _Continental Daily Mail_--to be with! The waters weregetting on her nerves, too; she would be glad to leave and go toSorrento with that Cupid among infants, Girolamo. Sabine had betterdivorce her horror of a husband, and marry the man and have done withit!

Now the walk from the Aberg down through the woods is a peculiarlydelightful one and, even in the season at Carlsbad, not over-crowded bypeople. Henry Fordyce felt duly elated at the prospect, and Mrs. Howardhad an air of pensive mischief in her violet eyes. Lord Fordyce, who hadbeen accustomed for years to making speeches for his party, and wasknown as a ready orator, found himself rather silent, and even a littlenervous, for the first hundred yards or so. She looked so bewitching, hethought, in her fresh white linen, showing up the round peachiness ofher young cheeks, and those curling, childish, brown lashes making theirshadow. He was overcome with a desire to kiss her. She was so supremelyhealthy and delectable. He felt he had been altogether a fool in hisestimate of the serious necessities of life hitherto. Woman was now oneof them--and this woman supremely so. Why, if she could be freed frombonds, should she not become his wife? But he felt it might be wiser notto be too precipitate about suggesting the thing to her. She hadcertainly given him no indication that she would receive the ideafavorably, and appeared to be of the type of character which could notbe coerced. He felt very glad Michael Arranstoun had not responded tohis pressing request to join him. It would be far better that thatirritatingly attractive specimen of manhood should not step upon thescene, until he himself had some definite hope of affairs beingsatisfactorily settled. 

They began their talk upon the lightest subjects, and gradually driftedinto one of the discussions of emotions in the abstract which are sofascinating--and so dangerous--and which require skill to direct andcontinue. 

Mrs. Howard held that pleasure could alone come from harmony of body andspirit, while Lord Fordyce maintained that wild discords could alsoproduce it, and that it could not be defined as governed by any law. 

"One is sometimes full of pleasure even against one's will, " he said. "Every spiritual principle and conviction may be outraged, and yet forsome unaccountable reason pleasure remains. "

Mrs. Howard opened her eyes wide as if at a sudden thought. 

"Yes, " she said. "I wish it were not true what you say, but it is--andit is a great injustice. "

"What makes you say that?" Henry asked, quickly. "You were thinking ofsome particular thing. Do tell me. "

"I was thinking how some people can sin and err in every way, and yetthere is something about them which causes them to be forgiven, andwhich even causes pleasure while they are sinning; and there are otherswho might do the same things and would be anathematised at once--and nojoy felt with them at any time. Moravia and I call it having 'it'--somepeople have it, and some people have not got it, and that is the end ofthe matter!"

"It is a strange thing, but I know what you mean. I know one particularcase of it in a friend of mine. No matter what he does, one alwaysforgives him. It does not depend upon looks, either--although thisactual person is abominably good-looking--it does not depend uponintelligence or character or--anything--as you say, it is just 'it. ' Nowyou have it, and the Princess, perfectly charming though she is, hasnot. "

Sabine did not contradict him; she never was conventional, denyingtruths for the sake of diffidence or politeness. Moravia was beautifuland charming, but it was true she had not 'it. '

"I think it applies more to men than to women, " was all she said. 

"You were thinking of a man, then, when you spoke?"

"Yes--I was thinking of a man--but it is not an interesting subject. "

Lord Fordyce decided that it was, but he did not continue it. 

"I want you to tell me all about Héronac, " he requested, "and whatcharmed you in it enough to make you buy it suddenly like that. How didyou come upon it?"

"I had just arrived from America, at the end of July of 1908--four yearsago--and I found, when I got to Cherbourg, that I could not join myfriend, the Princess, as I had intended, because her husband had takenher off to his country place near Naples. So I hired a motor andwandered down into Brittany alone. I wanted to be alone. I was motoringalong, when a violent storm came on, furious rain and wind, and just atthe worst and weirdest moment, I passed Héronac, which is a few hundredyards from the edge of the present village. It stands out in the sea ona great spur of rock, entirely separated from the main land by a deepchasm about thirty feet wide, over which there was then a broken bridgewhich had once been a drawbridge. It was a huge, grim ruin with only afew roofed rooms, built in about the thirteenth century originally, andof course added to and modernized. The house actually standing withinthe great towers is of the date of Louis XIV. It stood there, a darkmass, defying the storm, although the huge waves splashed right up tothe windows. "

"It sounds repellent. "

"It was--fierce and grim and repellent, and it suited my mood--so Istopped at the Inn, my old maid Simone and I, and I got permission to goand see it. The landlord of the Inn had the keys. The last of theHéronacs drank himself to death with absinthe in Paris, so the place wasclosed, and was no doubt for sale. '_Mais oui!_' he told us. Simone wasterrified to cross the wretched bridge, with the water swirling beneath, and we left her to go back to the Inn, while the landlord's son camewith me. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and was a mostextraordinary day, for now it began to thunder and lighten. "

"I wonder you were not afraid. "

"I am never afraid--I tell you, it suited me. There was still somefurniture in the roofed part of the inner court, and in the two greattowers which flank the main building--but in that the roof was off, butthe view from the windows when we crept along to them across the brokenfloor was too superb, straight out to the ocean, the waves thundering atthe base. I made up my mind that night I would buy it if I could--and, as I told you before, I did so in the following week. "

"How quaint of you!"

"It has been the greatest delight to me, and, as you will see, I havedone something with it. I restored the center, and have made itsarrangements modern and comfortable, but have left that one huge room onthe first floor as it was, only with the roof mended. I spend hours andhours in the deep window embrasures looking right over the sea. It hastaught me more of the meaning of things than all my books. "

"You speak as though you were an old woman, " Lord Fordyce exclaimed, "and you look only a mere child now--then, when you bought thisbrigand's stronghold, you must have been in the nursery!"

"I was over eighteen!"

"A colossal age! it was simply ridiculous for you to be wanting darkcastles and solitude. What--?" and then he paused; he did not continuehis question. 

"I was really very old--I had been old for almost a year. "

"And do you mean to remain old always, or will you ever let anyone teachyou to be young?"

Sabine looked away into the somber fir trees. They had got to a part ofthe path where the woods on either side are black as night in theirdepths. 

"I--don't--know, " she said, very low. 

Lord Fordyce moved nearer to her. 

"I wish you would let me try to take away all those somber thoughts Isee sometimes in those sweet eyes. "

"How would you begin?"

"By loving you very much--and then by trying to make you love me. "

"Does love take away dark thoughts, then--or does it bring them?"

"That depends upon the love, " he told her, eagerly. "When it is greatenough to be unselfish, it must bring peace and happiness, surely----"

"They are good things--they are harmony--but----"

"Yes--what are the buts?" his voice trembled a little. 

"Love seems to me to be a wild thing, a raging, tearing passion--Can itever be just tender and kind?"

"I wish you would let me prove to you that it can. "

She looked into his face gravely, and there was nothing but honestquestion in her violet eyes. 

"To what end?" she asked. 

"I would like you to marry me. " He had said it now when he had notintended to yet, and he was pale as death. 

She shrank from him a little. 

"But surely you know that I am not free!"

"I hoped I--believed that you can make yourself so--if you knew how Ilove you! I have never really loved any woman before in my life. Ialways thought they should be only recreations--but the moment I sawyou, my whole opinions changed. "

She grew troubled. 

"I wish you had not said this to me, " she faltered. "I--do not know thatI wish to change my life. I could, of course, be free, I suppose--if Iwanted to be--but--I am not sure. What would it mean if I listened toyou? Tell me! I am sometimes very lonely--and I like you so much. "

"I want to make you feel more than that, but I will be content withwhatever you will give me. I do not care one atom what dark page is inyour past, I know it can have been nothing of your own fault, and if itwere, I should not care--I only care for you--Sabine--will you not tellme that you will try to let me make you happy. It would mean that, thatI should devote my whole life to making you happy. "

"A woman should be contented with that, surely, " she said. And if HenryFordyce had had his usual critical wits about him unclouded by love, hewould have smiled his cynical smile and have said to himself:

"The spark is not lit, my friend; her voice lacks enthusiasm and herbrows are calm, " but he was like all lovers--blind--and only saw andheard what could comfort his heart, and so caught at the straw withdelight. 

"Whatever you asked I would give you. Only say that you will let me setabout helping you to be free at once. "

Mrs. Howard, however, had not gone this far in her imaginings--the ideahad started in her brain, no doubt, but it had not matured yet, and allwas hesitancy. 

"I cannot promise anything. You must give me time to think, LordFordyce. "

"Dearest, of course I will--but you will take steps to make yourselffree--will you not? I have not asked, and I will not ask you a singlequestion, only that you will tell me when I really may hope. "

His voice was deep with feeling, and his distinguished, clever face waseager and full of devotion, as they turned an abrupt corner, and therecame face to face with two of their American acquaintances in the hotel. 

"Isn't this a charming walk, Mrs. Howard, " and "Yes, isn't it!" and bowsand passings on; but it broke the current, destroyed the spell, andreleased some spirit of mischief in Sabine's heart, for she would notbe grave for another second. She made Henry promise he would just amuseher and not refer again to those serious topics unless she gave himleave. And he, accustomed to go his own way unhampered by the capricesof the gentle sex, agreed!--so under the dominion of love had he become!for a woman, too, who in herself combined three things he had alwaysdisliked. She was an American, she was very young, and she had anequivocal position. But the little god does not consult the individualbefore he shoots his darts, and punishes the most severely those whohave denied his power. 

By the time they had reached the Savoy, Sabine, with that aptitude, though it was perfectly unconscious in her, which is the characteristicof all her countrywomen, had reduced Lord Fordyce to completesubjection, so that he was ready to do any mortal thing in the world forher, and willing to grasp suggestions of hope upon any terms. 

She gave him a friendly smile, and disappeared up the stairs to theirsitting-room--there to find Moravia indulging in nerves. 

"I just want to scream, darling!" that lady said, and Sabine patted herhands. 

"Then don't, Morri, dearest, " she implored her. "You only want tobecause your mother, if she had been idle, would have wanted to scrubthe floors--just as my father's business capacity came out in me justnow, and I fenced with and sampled a very noble gentleman instead ofbeing simple with him. Let us get above our instincts--and be the realaristocrats we appear to the world!"

But the Princess had to have some sal volatile. 

That night after dinner waywardness was upon Sabine. She would read the_New York Herald_, which she had absolutely not glanced at since theirarrival at Carlsbad, so absorbed and entranced had she been in her walksin the green woods, and so little interested was she ever in the doingsof the world. 

She glanced at the Trouville news, and the Homburg news with wanderingmind, and then her eye fell upon the polo at Ostende, and there she readthat the English team had been giving a delightful dance at the Casino, where Mr. Michael Arranstoun had sumptuously entertained a party of hisfriends--amongst them Miss Daisy Van der Horn. The paragraph was wordedwith that masterly simplicity which distinguishes intelligent, modernjournalism; and left the reader's mind confused as to words, but clearas to suggestion. Sabine Howard knew Miss Daisy Van der Horn. As sheread, the bright, soft color left her cheeks, and then returned with abrilliant flush. 

It was the first time for five years she had ever read the name ofArranstoun in any paper. She held the sheet firmly, and perused all theother information of the day--but when she put it down, and joined inthe general conversation, it could have been remarked that her eyeswere glittering like fixed stars. 

And when, for a moment, they all went out on the balcony to breathe inthe warm, soft night, she whispered to Henry Fordyce:

"I have been thinking--I will, at all events, begin to take steps to befree. "

But to his rapturous, "My darling!" she replied, with lowered lids:

"It will take some time--and you may not like waiting--And when I amfree--I do not know--only--I am tired, and I want someone to help me toforget and begin again. Good-night. "

Then, after she got to her room, she opened the window wide, and lookedout upon the quiet firs. But nothing stilled the unrest in her heart. 

CHAPTER VIII

Héronac was basking in the sun of an August morning, like some huge seamonster which had clambered upon the wet rocks. 

The sea was intensely blue without a ripple upon it, and only thesmallest white line marked where its waters caressed the shore. 

Nature slumbered in the heat and was silent, and Sabine Howard, thechâtelaine of this quaint château, stood looking out of the deep windowsin her great sitting-room. It was a wonderful room. She had collecteddark panelling and tapestry to hide the grim stone walls, and hadmanaged to buy a splendidly carved and painted roof, while her sense ofcolor had run riot in beautiful silks for curtains. It was a remarkableachievement for one so young, and who had begun so ignorantly. Hermother's family had been decently enough bred, and her maternalgrandfather had been a fair artist, and that remarkable Americanadaptability which she had inherited from her father had helped her inmany ways. Her sitting-room at Héronac was, of course, not perfect; andto the trained eye of Henry Fordyce would present many anomalies; butno one could deny that it was a charming apartment, or that it was aglowing frame of rich tints for her youthful freshness. 

She had really studied in these years of her residence there, and eachmonth put something worth having into the storehouse of her intelligentmind. She was as immeasurably removed from the Sabine Delburg of conventdays as light from darkness, and her companion had often been Monsieurle Curé, an enchanting Jesuit priest, who had the care of the souls ofHéronac village. A great cynic, a pure Christian and a man of parts--adistant connection of the original family--Gaston d'Héronac had knownthe world in his day; and after much sorrow had found a hermitage in hisown village--a consolation in the company of this half-French, half-American heiress, who had incorporated herself with the soil. Hewas now seventy years of age and always a gentleman, with few of thetiresome habits of the old. 

What joy he had found in opening the mind of his young Dame d'Héronac!

It was frankly admitted that there were to be no discussions uponreligion. 

"I am a pagan, _cher père_, " Sabine had said, almost immediately, "leaveme!--and let me enjoy your sweet church and your fisherfolks' faith. Iwill come there every Sunday and say my prayers--_mes prières àmoi_--and then we can discuss philosophy afterwards or--what you will. "

And the priest had replied:

"Religion is not of dogma. The paganism of Dame Sabine is as good in thesight of le bon Dieu as the belief of Jean Rivée, who knows that hisboat was guided into the harbor on the night of the great storm by theHoly Virgin, who posed Herself by the helm. Heavens! yes--it is God whojudges--not priests. "

It can be easily understood that with two minds of this breadth, PèreAnselme and Sabine Howard became real friends. 

The Curé, when he read with her the masters of the _dix-septième_ andthe _dix-huitième_ had a quaintly humorous expression in his old blackeye. 

"Not for girls or for priests--but for _des gens du monde_, " he said toher one day, on putting down a volume of Voltaire. 

"Of what matter, " Sabine had answered. "Since I am not a girl, _chermaître_, and you were once not a priest, and we are both _gens dumonde--hein_?"

His breeding had been of enormous advantage to him, enabling him torefrain from asking Sabine a single question; but he knew from herejaculations as time went on that she had passed through some furnaceduring her eighteenth year, and it had seared her deeply. He even knewmore than this; he knew almost as much as Simone, eventually, but itwas all locked in his breast and never even alluded to between them. 

Sabine was waiting for him at this moment upon this glorious day inAugust. Père Anselme was going to breakfast with her. 

He was announced presently, courtly and spare and distinguished in histhread-bare soutane, and they went in to the breakfast-room, a roundchamber in the adjoining tower which had kitchens beneath. The wallswere here so thick, that only the sky could be seen from any windowexcept the southeastern one, from which you reviewed the gray slateroofs of the later building within the courtyard, the part which hadbeen always habitable and which contained the salons and the guestchambers, with only an oblique view of the sea. Here, in Héronac'smistress' own apartments, the waves eternally encircled the base, and onrough days rose in great clouds of spray almost to the deep mullions. 

"I am having visitors, Père Anselme, " Sabine remarked, when Nicholas, her fat butler, was handing the omelette. "Madame Imogen is enchanted, "and she smiled at that lady who had been waiting for déjeuner in theroom before they had entered. 

"_Tant mieux!_" responded the priest, with his mouth full of egg andmushroom. In his youth, the Héronacs had not imported English nurses, and he ate as his fathers had done before him. 

"So much the better. Our lady is too given to solitude, and but for themeteor-like descents of the Princess Torniloni and her tamed father--"(he used the word _aprivoisé_--"_son père aprivoisé_"!) "we should heresee very little of the outside world. And of what sex, madame, are thesenew acquaintances, if one may ask?"

"They are men, _cher père_--bold, bad Englishmen!--think of it! but Ican only tell you the name of one of them--the other isproblematical--he has merely been spoken of as, 'My friend'--but he isyoung, I gather, so just the affaire of Mère Imogen!"

"Why, that's likely!" chirped Madame Imogen, with a strong Americanaccent, in her French English. "But I do pine for some gay things downhere, don't you, Father?"

Père Anselme was heard to murmur that he found youth enough in hishostess, if you asked him. 

"At the same time, we must welcome these Englishmen, " he added, "shouldthey be people of cultivation. " He had heard that, in their upperclasses, the Englishmen of to-day were still the greatest gentlemenleft, and he would be pleased to meet examples of them. 

"They will arrive at about five o'clock, I suppose, " Sabine announced. "Have you seen about their rooms, Mère Imogen? Lord Fordyce is to havethe Louis XIV suite, and the friend the one beyond; and we will only letthem come into our house if they do not bore us. We shall dine in the_salle-à-manger_ to-night and sit in the big salon. "

These rooms were seldom opened, except when Princess Torniloni came tostay and brought her son, Sabine's godchild, who had elaborate nurseriesprepared for him. No other visitor had ever crossed the causeway, andMadame Imogen's cute mind was asking itself why clemency had beenaccorded to these two Britons. The English, as she knew, were not afavored race with her employer. 

They had been together for about two years now, she and Sabine--and wereexcellent friends. 

Madame Imogen Aubert had been in great straits in Paris, when Sabine hadheard of her through one of her many American acquaintances. Stupidspeculation by an over-confident, silly French husband just before hisdeath in Nevada had been the reason. Madame Imogen had the kindest heartand the hardest common sense, and did credit to a distant Scotchdescent. She adored Sabine, as indeed she had reason to do, and lookedafter her house and her servants with a hawk's eye. 

After déjeuner was over, the Dame d'Héronac and the Curé crossed thecauseway bridge, and beyond the great towered gate entered another atthe side, which conducted them into the garden, which sheltered itselfbehind immensely big walls from the road which curled beyond it, and thesea which bounded it on the northwest. Here, whatever horticulturaltalent and money could procure had been lavished for four years, andthe results were beginning to show. It was a glorious mass of summerflowers; and was the supreme pleasure of Père Anselme. He gardened withthe fervor of an enthusiast, and was the joy and terror of thegardeners. 

They spent two hours in delightful work, and then the Curé went hisway--but just before he left for the hundred yards down the road wherehis cottage stood, Sabine said to him:

"Regard well Lord Fordyce to-night, _mon père_. It is possible I maydecide to know him very intimately some day--when I am free. "

The old priest looked at her questioningly. 

"You intend to remove your shackles yourself, then, my child? You willnot leave the affair to the good God--no?"

"I think that it will be wiser that I should be free soon, _mon père_--_lebon Dieu_ helps those who help themselves. Au revoir--and do not be latefor the Englishmen. "

The priest shrugged his high shoulders, as he walked off. 

"The dear child, " he said to himself. "She does not know it, but theimage of the fierce one has not faded entirely even yet--it is natural, though, that she should think of a mate. I must well examine thisEnglishman!"

Sabine went back into the walled garden again, and sat down under theshelter of an arbour of green. She wanted to re-read a letter of HenryFordyce's, which she had received that day by the early and only post. 

It was rather a perfect letter for any young woman to have got, and sheknew that and valued all its literary and artistic merits. 

They had had long and frequent conversations in their last three days atCarlsbad, during which they had grown nearer and still better friends. His gentleness, his courtesy and diffidence were such incense to herself-esteem, considering the position of importance he held in his owncountry and the great place he seemed to occupy in the Princess' regard. And he was her servant--her slave--and would certainly make the mosttender lover--some day!

On their last afternoon, he had taken her hands and kissed them. 

"Sabine, " he had said, with his voice trembling with emotion. "I haveshown you that I can control myself, and have not made any love to youas I have longed to do. Won't you be generous, dearest, and give me somedefinite hope--some definite promise that, when you are free, you willgive yourself to me and will be my wife----?"

And she had answered--with more fervor than she really felt, because shewould hide some unaccountable reluctance:

"Yes--I have written to-day to my lawyer, Mr. Parsons--to advise me howto begin to take the necessary steps--and when it all goes through, then--yes--I will marry you. "

But she would not let him kiss her, which he showed signs of desiring todo. 

"You must wait until I am free, though my marriage is no tie; it hasnever been one--after the first year. I will tell you the whole story, if you want to hear it--but I wish to forget it all--only it is fair foryou to know there is no disgrace connected with it in any way. "

"I should not care one atom if there were, " Henry said, ecstatically. "You yourself could never have touched any disgrace. Your eyes are aspure as the stars!"

"I was extremely ignorant and foolish, as one is at seventeen. And now Iwant to make something of life--some great thing--and your goodness andyour high and fine ideals will help me. "

"My dearest!" he had cried fervently. 

Sabine had said to the Princess that night, as they talked in theirsitting-room:

"Do you know, Morri, I have almost decided to marry thisEnglishman--some day. You have often told me I was foolish not to freemyself from any bonds, however lightly they held me--and I have neverwanted to--but now I do--at once--as soon as possible--before--myhusband can suggest being free of me! I have written to Mr. Parsonsalready--and I suppose it will not take very long. The laws there, Ibelieve, are not so binding as in England--" and then she stopped short. 

"The laws--where?" Moravia could not refrain from asking; her curiosityhad at last won the day. 

"In Scotland, Morri. He was a Scotchman, not an American at all as everyone supposes. "

The Princess' eyes opened wide--and she had to bite her lips to keepfrom asking more. 

"I have never seen him since the day after we were married--there cannotbe any difficulty about getting a divorce--can there?"

"None, I should think, " the Princess said shortly, and they kissed oneanother good-night and each went to her room. 

But Moravia sat a long time, after her maid had left her, staring intospace. 

Fate was very cruel and contrary. It gave her everything that mostpeople could want, and refused her the one thing she desired herself. 

"He adores Sabine--who will trample on him--she always ruleseverything--and I would have been his sympathetic companion, and wouldhave let him rule me--!" Then something she could not reconcile in hermind struck her. 

If Sabine had never seen her husband since the day after she wasmarried--what had caused her to be so pale and sad and utterly changedwhen she came to her, Moravia, in Rome--a year or more afterwards, andto have made her break entirely with her uncle and aunt? The secret ofher friend's life lay in that year--that year after she herself marriedand went off with her husband Girolamo to Italy--the year which Sabinehad spent in America--alone. But she knew very well that, fond as theywere of one another, Sabine would probably never tell her about it. Sopresently she got into bed and, sighing at the incongruity andinconsiderateness of circumstance, she turned out the light. 

Sabine that same night read of further entertainments at Ostende in the_New York Herald_--and shut her full, firm lips with an ominous force. And so she and Henry had parted at the Carlsbad station next day withthe understanding between them that, when Sabine could tell him that shewas free, he would be at liberty to press his suit and she would give afavorable answer. 

She thought of these past things now for a moment while she re-read LordFordyce's letter. It told her, there in her Héronac garden, in a hurriedP. S. That a friend had joined him that moment at Havre, and clamored tobe taken on the trip, too, claiming an old promise. He was quite a niceyoung man--but if she did not want any extra person, she was to wire to----, where they would arrive about eleven o'clock, and there thisinterloper should be ruthlessly marooned! The post had evidently beengoing, and the P. S. Must have been written in frightful haste after theadvent of the friend--for his name was not even given. 

Sabine had not wired. She felt a certain sense of relief. It would makesomeone to talk to Madame Imogen and the Curé--and cause there to be no_gêne_. 

Then her thoughts turned to Henry himself with tender friendship. Sodear a companion, and how glad she would be to see him again. The tendays since they had parted at Carlsbad seemed actually long! Surely itwas a wise thing to do to start her real life with one whom she could sotruly respect; there could be no pitfalls and disappointments! And hisgreat position in England would give scope for her ambition, which nevercould be satisfied like Moravia's with just social things. She wouldbegin to study English politics and the other great matters which Henrywas interested in. He would find that what she had told him at Carlsbadwas true, and that, although he was naturally prejudiced againstAmericans, he would have to admit that she, as his wife, played the partas well, if not better, than one of his own countrywomen could havedone. She thrilled a little as the picture came up before her of thelarge outlook she would have to survey, and the great situation shewould have to adorn, but sure of Henry's devoted kindness and gentlenessall the time. 

Yes--she would certainly marry him, perhaps by next year. Mr. Parsonshad written only yesterday, saying he had begun to take steps, as herfreedom must come from the side of her husband--who could divorce herfor desertion. She could not urge this plea against him, since she hadleft him of her own free will. 

"He will jump at the chance, naturally, " she said to herself--"and then, perhaps, he will marry Daisy Van der Horn!"

She was still a very young woman, you see, for all her four years ofdeep education in the world of books!

She put the letter back in her basket below the flowers she had picked, and prepared to return to the château. To arrange various combinationsof color in vases was her peculiar joy--and her flower decorations wereher special care. She was just entering the great towered gate ofHéronac where resided the concierge, when she heard the whir of a motorapproaching in the distance, and she hurriedly slipped inside oldBerthe's parlor. She disliked dust and strangers, who, fortunately, veryseldom came upon this unbeaten track. 

She was watching from the window until they should have passed--it couldnot be her guests, it was quite an hour too soon, when the motor whizzedround the bend and stopped short at the gate! It was a big open one, andthe occupants wore goggles over their eyes; but she recognized LordFordyce's figure, as he got out followed by a very tall young man, whocalled out cheerily:

"Yes--this must be the brigand's stronghold, Henry; let's thunder at thebell. "

Then for a moment her knees gave way beneath her, and she sank intoBerthe's carved oaken chair. For the voice was the voice of MichaelArranstoun--and when he pulled the goggles off, she could see, as shepeered through the window, his sunburnt face and bold blue eyes. 

CHAPTER IX

Ostende had begun to bore Michael Arranstoun intolerably--he had lamedhis best pony and Miss Daisy Van der Horn was getting on his nerves. AtOstende she, to use one of her own expressions, "was not the only pebbleon the beach. " His nerves had had a good deal of exercise among thatexceedingly pleasure-loving, frolicsome crew. 

Five years in the wilds had not changed him much, except to add to hisannoying charm. He was more absolutely dare-devil and sure of himselfand careless of all else than ever. Miss Daisy Van der Horn--and anumber of Clarices and Germaines and Lolos--were "just crazy" about him. And they mattered to him not a single straw. He laughed--and kissed themwhen he felt inclined, and then when all had begun to weary him he rodeaway--or rather sent his polo ponies back to England and got into theexpress for Paris, expecting there to find Henry Fordyce returned fromCarlsbad--only to hear that he had just started in his motor forBrittany, and by that evening would have arrived at Havre. 

Michael had nothing special to do and so followed him there at once bytrain, coming upon him just as he was closing his letter to Mrs. Howard. Then in his usual whirlwind way, which must be obeyed--he had persuadedHenry to take him on with him, inwardly against that astutepolitician's, but diffident lover's will. 

"Look here, Michael, " he had said, "I am going to see the lady of myheart--you know, and you will probably be in the way!"

"Not a bit, old boy--I'll play the helpful friend and spin things along. What's she like?"

Here Lord Fordyce gave a guarded description--but with the enthusiasm ofa man who is no longer quite young but madly in love. 

"Good Lord!" whistled Michael. "She must be a daisy! And when are yougoing to be married, old man? I'll lend you Arranstoun for thehoneymoon--damned good place for a honeymoon--" and then he stoppedshort suddenly and laughed with a strange regretful sound in his mirth. 

"Alas!" Henry sighed. "I cannot say--she is an American, you know, andhas been married to a brute of her own nation out west, whom she has toget perfectly free of before I can have the honor to call her mine. "

"Whew!"

"Yes, it is a dreadful bore having to wait. They arrange divorceswonderfully well over there though it is only a question of a fewmonths, I suppose--but she would be worth waiting for for ten years----"

"It is simply glorious to hear you raving so, old bird!" Michaellaughed. "When I think of the lectures you used to give me aboutwomen--mere recreations for a man's leisure moments, I think you calledthem, and not to be taken seriously in a man's real life!"

"I have completely changed my opinions, " Lord Fordyce announced, rathernettled. "So would any man if he knew Mrs. Howard. "

"Howard?" asked Michael--"but anyone can be a Talbot or a Howard or aCavendish out there--so she is a Mrs. Howard, is she? I wonder who thehusband was--I had a rascally cousin of that name who went toArizona--perhaps she married him. "

"Her husband was an American, " Henry rejoined, "and is in a madhouse oran institution for inebriates, I believe. "

"Well, I wish you all joy, Henry, I do, indeed--and I promise you I willdo all I can to help you through with it. I won't retaliate for yourthundering niggardness five years ago, when you would not even be mybest man, do you remember?"

"This is quite different, my dear boy, " Lord Fordyce assured him withdignity. "You were going to do what I thought a most casual thing, justfor your own ends, but I--Michael--" and his cultivated voice vibratedwith feeling--"I love this woman as I never thought I should loveanything on God's earth. "

"Then here's to you!" said Mr. Arranstoun, and ringing the bell for thewaiter, ordered a pint of champagne to drink his friend's health. 

So they had started in the motor after breakfast next day and that nightslept at St. Malo--getting to Héronac without adventure the followingafternoon. 

When no telegram was awaiting Lord Fordyce at ---- where theybreakfasted, he remarked to Michael:

"She does not mind your coming--or she would have wired--I wish I wereas indifferent about it--Michael--" and Henry stammered alittle--"you'll promise me as a friend--you will not look into her eyeswith your confounded blue ones and try to cut me out. "

For some reason this appeal touched something in Michael's heart, hisvoice was full of cordiality and his blue bold eyes swam with kindlyaffection as he answered:

"I'm not a beast, Henry--and I don't want every woman I see--and anyoneyou fancied would in any case be sacred to me, " and he held out hishand. "Give you my word as I told you before, I'll not only promise youon my honor that I'll not cut in myself, but I'll do everything I can tohelp you, old man, " then he laughed to hide the seriousness of hisfeeling--"even to lending Arranstoun for the honeymoon. "

So they grasped hands and sealed the bargain and got into the motor andwent on their way. 

The first view of Héronac had enchanted them both, it was indeed aunique place. 

"What taste!" Henry had said. "Fancy a young woman knowing and seeing atonce the possibilities of such a place!"

"It is as grim as Arranstoun and nearly as old, " Michael exclaimed. "Iam glad we came. "

Sabine shrank back into Berthe's little kitchen and signalled to her notto make known the hostess' presence--but to let the gentlemen drive overthe causeway bridge to the courtyard--where they would be told byNicholas that she was in the garden, and would probably be brought thereto her by Madame Imogen who would have welcomed them. 

Her firm will forced her to pull herself together and decide what to dowhen they should come face to face. To be totally unconcerned was thebest thing--to look and act as though Michael Arranstoun were indeed aperfect stranger introduced to her for the first time in her life. Itwould take him some moments to be certain that she was Sabine--hiswife--and he would then not be likely to make a scene before Henry--andwhen the moment for plain speaking came, she would sternly demand to beset free. She had kept silence to Henry as to who her husband reallywas--for no reason except that the whole subject disturbed hergreatly--the very mention of Michael's name or the thought of him alwaysfilling her with wild and mixed emotions. She had schooled herself inthe years that had gone by since their parting, into absolutelybanishing his memory every time it recurred. She had a vague feelingthat she must be free of him, and safe before she could even pronouncehis name to Lord Fordyce, who naturally must know eventually. There wasan unaccountable and not understood fear in her--fear that in thediscussion which must arise if she spoke of who her husband was toHenry, that something might transpire, or that she might hear somethingwhich would reawaken certain emotions, and weaken her determination tobreak the even empty bond with Michael. And now she had seen him againwith her mortal eyes, and she knew that she was trembling and tinglingwith a mad sensation of she knew not what--hatred and revulsion shehoped! but was only sure of one aspect of it--that of wild excitement. 

No one--not a single soul--neither Simone--Madame Imogen--nor PèreAnselme himself must be allowed to see that she recognized Michael--herbelief that her countrywomen were fine actresses should stand her ingood stead, and enable her to play this part of unconsciousness toperfection. _She would_ conquer herself--and she stamped her little footthere in the high turret bower in the garden where she had retired. Itswindows opened straight out to the sea and she often had tea there. There would be no use in all her prayers for calm and poise if theyshould desert her now in this great crisis of her life. She was bound toHenry by her promised word, given of her own free will--and she meant tokeep it, and do everything in her power to make herself free. She was anextremely honest person, honest even with herself, and she realized thateither her own weakness or indecision, or some other motive had forcedher to give a definite answer to Lord Fordyce--and that he was too finea character to be played with and tossed about because of her moods. Shehad mastered every sign of emotion by the time Madame Imogen'scomfortable figure, accompanied by the two men, could be seen advancingin the distance. She rose with the gracious smile of a hostess and heldout her hand--pleased surprise upon her face. 

"So you have come! but earlier than I thought, " and she shook hands withHenry, and then turned to his friend without the slightestembarrassment, as Lord Fordyce spoke his name. 

"How do you do, " she said politely. "You are both very welcome toHéronac. "

Michael had merely seen a pretty outline of a young woman until they hadgot quite close and she had raised her head and lifted the shadow of herbig garden sun-bonnet--and then he stiffened suddenly and grew verypale. He was a little behind the other two, and they observed nothing, but Sabine saw the change of color in his healthy handsome face, and thelook of surprise and incredulity and puzzle which grew in his blue eyes. 

"How do you do?" he murmured, and then pulled himself together andlooked at her hard. 

But she stood his scrutiny with perfect unconcern--even meeting his eyewith a blank, agreeable want of recognition; while she made someordinary remark about their journey. Then pointing to her basket:

"See--I was picking flowers for my sitting-room and I did not expect youfor another hour--what a silent motor you must have that its noise didnot penetrate here!"

Henry was so overcome with joy to see her, and that she should be sogracious and sweet--he said all sorts of nice things and walked by herside as they came down from the turret summer-house. She looked thepicture of a fresh June rose as she carried her basket full of Augustflowers--phloxes and penstemons and a great bunch of late sweet peas. And Michael felt almost that he was staggering a little as he followedwith Madame Imogen, the shock had been so great. 

Was it really Sabine--his wife!--or could she have a double in theworld. Maddening uncertainty was his portion. He must know, he must becertain--and if she were his wife--what then? What did it mean? Hecould not claim her--she was engaged to Henry, his friend--to whom hehad given his word of honor that he would help as much as he could. Itwas no wonder that he answered Madame Imogen's prattle, crisp andAmerican and amusing though it was, quite at random--his whole attentionbeing upon the pair in front. 

Sabine also found that she was not hearing a word Henry said, but thatthe wildest excitement which she had ever known was coursing through herblood. At last she did catch that he was telling her that never had shebeen more beautiful or had brighter eyes. 

"This place must suit you even better than Carlsbad, " he said. 

She answered laughingly and led the way toward the gate and so acrossthe causeway and on into her own sitting-room where they would find tea. She supposed afterwards that she had talked sensibly, but never had anyrecollection of what she had said. 

The room was looking singularly beautiful with the wonderful coloring ofthe splendid curtains, and the tapestry and dark wood. And it was ahomely place, too, with quantities of book-cases and comfortable chairsfor all its vast size. Michael thought there was a faint look of his ownroom at Arranstoun--and he joined the two who had advanced to one of thehuge embrasures of the windows where the tea table was laid--here therewere velvet-covered window seats where one could lounge and gaze out atthe sea. 

"What an exquisite place!" he exclaimed. "It reminds me of Arranstoun, does it not you, Henry?--although that is not near the sea. "

The color deepened in Sabine's cheeks--had she unconsciously made itresemble that place? She did not know, and the suggestion struck herwith surprise. 

Michael had recognized her of course, she saw that, but he was agentleman and intended to play the game. That was an immense relief. Shecould allow herself to look at him critically now--not with just thecursory glance she had bestowed upon Henry's friend at first--for he hadturned and was talking to Madame Imogen whom Sabine had signed to pourout the tea--she was not sure if her own hand might not have shaken alittle and it were wiser to take no risks. 

He was horribly good-looking--that jumped to the eye--and with acareless, indifferent grace--five years had only matured and increasedhis attractions. He had "it"--manifesting in every part of him and hisatmosphere! A magnetism, a hateful, odious power which she felt, andfiercely resented. He had recovered completely from whatever shock hehad felt upon seeing her it would seem! for his face looked absolutelyunconcerned now and perfectly at ease. 

She called all her forces together and played the part of the radiant, well-mannered hostess, being even extra sweet and charming to Henry, who was in the seventh heaven in consequence. The dreaded introductionof his too-fascinating friend at Héronac had passed off well and hisadored lady did not seem to be taking any notice of him. 

Michael did not seek by word or look to engage her in personalconversation; if he had really been a stranger who did not even find hishostess fair, he could not have been more casual or less impressed. Andall the while his pulses were bounding and he was growing more and morefilled with astonishment and emotion. 

At last a thought came. Why, of course! Henry had told her he wascoming, so she had expected the meeting and had had time to schoolherself to act! But this straw was not long vouchsafed him, and thenstupefaction set in, for Henry chanced to say:

"You must forgive me for not having time to write you my friend's namein my postscript, the post was off that minute--you had to take him ontrust!"

"I do not know that I even caught it just now!" Sabine returned archly. "Mr. ----?"

And Henry, engaged for a moment taking a second cup of tea from MadameImogen's fat hand, Michael answered for him, looking straight into hereyes:

"Michael Howard Arranstoun of Arranstoun over the border inScotland--like Gretna Green. "

"How romantic that sounds, " Madame Imogen chimed in. "Why, it's a namefit for a stage play I do think. A party of my friends visited that verycastle only last fall. Mrs. Howard dear, it's as well known as theTrossachs to investigators of the antique!"

"Wonderfully interesting!" Sabine remarked blandly--putting more sugarin her tea--at which Michael's eyebrows raised themselves in a whimsicalway--back had rushed to him the recollection that on the only occasionthey had ever drunk tea together before, she had said that she liked"lumps and lumps of it!"

"You probably know England?" he hazarded politely. 

"Very little. I was once there for a month when I was a child; we wentto see Windermere and the Lakes. "

"You got no further north? That was a pity, our country is mostbeautiful--but it is not too late--you may go there yet some day. "

"Who knows?" and she laughed gaily--she had to allow herself someoutlet, she felt she would otherwise have screamed. 

Michael looked away out to sea and he told himself he must not tease herany more. She was astonishingly game--so astonishingly game that but forthe name "Howard" he could have almost believed that this young womanwas his Sabine's double--but he remembered now that she had said she wasgoing to call herself Mrs. Howard because otherwise she would not beable to "have any fun!"

He had never recollected it since, not even when Henry had told him thelady of his heart was called Howard--obscured by his friend's assertionthat her husband was an American, he had not for an instant suspectedthe least connection with himself. 

Until he could find out the meaning of all this comedy, he must not letHenry have an idea that there was anything underneath; and then with apang of mortification and pain he remembered his promise to Henry--andhe clenched his hands in his coat pockets, he was indeed tied and bound. 

Sabine for her part felt she could bear the situation no longer; shemust be alone--so on the plea of letters to write, she dismissed themwith Madame Imogen to show them to their rooms in the other part of thehouse which was connected to this, her two great turrets and middleimmense room, by a passage which went along from the turret whichcontained her bedroom. 

"You won't mind, perhaps, dining at half past seven?" she said as shepaused at her door, "because our good Curé, Père Anselme is coming, andhe hates to sit up late. "

And with the corner of his eye, Michael saw that before he hurried afterhim, Henry had bent and surreptitiously kissed his hostess' hand--and asudden blinding, unreasoning rage shook him as he stalked on to hisallotted apartment. 

CHAPTER X

Sabine decided to be a little late for dinner--three minutes, just togive the rest of the party time to be assembled in the big salon. Shewas coming from the communicating passage to her part of the house whenMr. Arranstoun came out of his room, and they were obliged to go downthe great staircase together. 

To see him suddenly in evening dress like this brought her wedding nightback so vividly to her, she with difficulty kept a gasp from her breath. He was certainly the most splendidly good-looking creature, with hisblue eyes and dark hair and much fairer little moustache. 

"I am late!" she cried laughing, before he could speak a word. "PèreAnselme will scold me! Come along!" and she tripped forward with aglance over her shoulder. 

Michael's eyes blazed--she was a truly bewitching morsel in her freshwhite frock with its bunch of crimson sweet peas stuck in the belt. 

"Your flowers should be stephanotis, " he said, and that was all, as hefollowed her down the stairs. 

"I cannot bear them, " she retorted and shuddered a little. "I only carefor out-door, simple things like my sweet peas. "

He did not speak as they went along the gallery--this disconcertedher--what did it mean? She had been prepared to fence with him, and keephim in his place, she was ready to defend herself on all sides--and nodefence seemed necessary! A sudden cold feeling came over her as thoughexcitement had died down and she opened the salon door quickly andadvanced into the room. 

Michael had come to a determination while dressing--Henry had walked inand smoked a cigarette with him before he began, and had then showedplainly his joy and satisfaction. She--his worshiped lady--had neverbefore been so tender and gracious, and he was awfully happy becausethings were going well. And what did his friend Michael think of hischoice? Was she not the sweetest woman in the world?

Michael said he had seen better-looking ones, but admitted she hadcharm. He was really suffering, the situation was so impossible and hehad not yet made up his mind what he ought to do--tell Henry straightout that Sabine was his wife or what? If he did that he might be goingcontrary to some plan of hers--for she evidently had no intention yet ofinforming Lord Fordyce, or of giving the least indication that sherecognized him--Michael. It was the most grotesque puzzle and containedan element of the tragic, too--for one of them. 

Henry's happiness and contentment touched him--his dear old friend!--hefelt extraordinarily upset. But when Lord Fordyce had gone he rapidlyreviewed matters and made up his mind. At all events, for the present, he would be guided by what Sabine's attitude should be herself. He wouldcertainly see her alone on the following day and then she would mostlikely broach the subject and they could agree what to do--for thatHenry must know some day was an incontestable fact. He, Michael, wouldmake some excuse and leave Héronac by the next evening, it wasimpossible to go on playing such a part, and not fair to any one, leastof all to his friend. 

"I will give her to-night to declare her hand, " he thought, as hisvalet, no longer the dignified Johnson, handed him his coat, "and thenif she will not put the cards down--I must. "

But when he opened his door and saw her exquisite slender figuretripping forward from the dark passage, a fierce pain gripped his heart, and he said between his teeth:

"My God! if it had not been too late!"

The Dame d'Héronac was in wild spirits at dinner--and her cheeks burnedlike glowing roses. Monsieur le Curé watched her with his wise, blackeye. 

"The child is not herself, " he thought. "It is possible that thisEnglishman may mean a great deal to her--but he is of the gentle type, not of the sort one would believe to make strong passions--no--now if ithad been the other one--the friend--that one could have seen some lightthrough--a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman--a fineyoung man, a splendid young man--but yes. "

Madame Imogen made no reflections, she was too delighted with their gayrepast, and helped with her jolly wit to keep the ball rolling. 

Henry felt slightly intoxicated with happiness--while in Michael, passions of various sorts were rising, against his will. 

A devil was in Sabine--never had she been so alluring, so feminine, socompletely removed from her usual grave, indifferent self. 

She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversationbeyond what cordial politeness compelled. It was to Père Anselme thatshe almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies toMadame Imogen. But her whole atmosphere was radiating with provokingfascination--and as they all rose from table she took Lord Fordyce'sarm. 

"In England, I hear you men remain in the dining room to drink all sortsof ports--but here in my France we expect you to be sociable and comewith us at once--you may smoke where you choose. "

Henry could not refrain from caressing with his other hand the littlecold one lying on his arm as they walked along--while he whispered withpassionate devotion:

"My darling, darling girl!"

"Hush!" she answered nervously. "Your friend will hear!"

"And if he does! what matter, dearest--he knows that I love you, andthat as soon as you are free you are going to be my wife. "

There must have been a slight roughness in the carpet which slid uponthe slippery floor, for the Dame d'Héronac stumbled a little and thengasped:

"He--knows that----!"

And by the time they all reached the salon, her rosy cheeks were pale, while the pupils of her violet eyes were so large as to make them appearto be black as night. 

The gay sprite of the dinner-table seemed to have taken her departureand a dignified and serious hostess filled her place. A hostess whodiscoursed of gardens, and architecture, and such subjects--and at teno'clock when the Père Anselme gave his blessing and wished the companygood-night, also gave a white hand to her guests, saying that MadameImogen would show them the small salon where they could smoke and havetheir drinks before retiring to their rooms, then she bowed to them andwalked off slowly to her part of the house. 

When she had gone, Michael said a little hoarsely to Henry:

"I have got the fiend of a headache, old man. I think I won't smoke, butturn in at once. "

An hour or two later, when the whole château was wrapped indarkness--the mistress of it crept from her bed-room to the greatsitting-room, and turning on the light, she unlocked a blue despatch-boxwhich stood beside her writing-table. From this she took a letter, marked a little with former perusals--and she read it over once morefrom beginning to end. 

It had

 Arranstoun Castle, Scotland, stamped upon it in red and it bore a date in June, 1907. It had nobeginning and thus it ran:

 Since after everything I wake to find you have chosen to leave me you can abide by your decision. I will not follow you or ever seek to bring you back. It is useless to ask you if you meant that you forgave me--because your going proves that you really have not--so make what you please of your life as I shall make what I please of mine. 

 Michael Arranstoun. 

When she put the paper back again, glittering tears gathered and rolledin shining drops down her cheeks. 

He had meant that last paragraph then, and he meant it now evidently, since he knew that she was pledged to marry Henry when she should befree, and had made no protest. Perhaps he was glad and intended to marryMiss Daisy van der Horn! Her tears dried suddenly--and her cheeksburned. She must think this situation out, and not just drift. It wasplain that Michael had been astonished to the point of stupefaction onseeing her. He could not have known then that his friend wished to marryher--Sabine--only that his friend wished to marry the lady they weregoing to see. But he knew it afterwards, he knew it at dinner--and yethe said never a word. What could it mean? What could be best to do?Perhaps to see him alone in the morning and ask him to grant her freedomand get the divorce as quickly as possible. She could count upon herselfnot to betray the slightest feeling in the interview. If only thatstrange turn of fate had not brought Lord Fordyce into her life, whatglorious pleasure she would now take in trying her uttermost tofascinate and attract Michael--not that she desired him forherself!--only to punish him for all the past! But she was not free. Shehad given her word to Henry. The humiliation of feeling that Michael wasmaking no protest, and would apparently from this fact agree willinglyto divorce her, stung her pride and made her want to make him suffer andregret in some way. If she could believe that it was paining him, shewould be glad--and if it appeared possible to keep up the pretence ofunrecognition for longer than to-morrow, she would certainly do so; itwas a frantic excitement in any case, and she adored difficult games. Then as she put the letter back in her despatch-box, her hand touched alarge blue enamel locket, and with a shiver she hastily shut down thelid, and as one fleeing from a ghost she ran back to bed. 

Michael meanwhile was pacing his room in deep and agitated thought. 

How supremely attractive she was! And to have to give her up to Henry;it was too frightfully cruel. But he had absolutely no right to stand ineither of their lights. He had not even the right to undermine hisfriend's influence by deed or look, since he had given him his word ofhonor that he would not do so. What a blind fool he had been all thoseyears ago to let passionate rage at Sabine's daring to leave him makehim write her that letter. He would not have done it if he had not feltsuch an intolerable brute--and glad to cut the whole thing by acceptingLatimer Berkeley's suggestion to join him for the China expedition atonce. The Berkeley letter coming that next morning was a stroke of fate. If he had had a day to think about things, he would have followed hisimpulse after the anger died down, and gone after her to Mr. Parsons'London address, but he had already wired to Latimer and his resentfulblood was up. 

He remembered how he had not allowed himself to think of her--but hadconcentrated his whole mind upon his sport. For it had been tremendoussport and had interested him deeply, that journey to Tibet. And howeverstrong feelings may be at moments--absence and fresh interests dullthem. To banish her memory became a good deal easier as time went on, and even the idea to divorce her if she wished did not seem too hard. 

But now he had seen her again--and every spell she had cast over him onthat June night was renewed ten-fold. She was everything he coulddesire--she was beautiful and sweet and witty, with a charm which onlycomplete independence and indifference can ever give a woman in the eyesof such a man as he. This he did not reason out--thinking himself a veryordinary person--in fact, never thinking of himself at all or what histemperament was affected by. He did not realize either that the veryfact of Sabine's being now out of his reach made her appear the one andonly thing he cared to possess. He knew nothing except that he feltperfectly mad with fate--mad with himself for making an unconditionalpromise to Henry, perfectly furious that he had been too stupid toconnect the name of Howard at once with his wife. 

And here he was sleeping in her castle--not she sleeping in his! And hewas conforming to her lead--not she following his. And the only thingfor a gentleman to do under the complicated circumstances was tospeedily divorce her according to the Scottish law and let her marryhis friend, Henry Fordyce--give them his blessing and lend themArranstoun for the honeymoon!

When he got thus far in his meditations, he simply stood in the middleof the room and cursed aloud. 

Never in his whole life had bolts or bars or circumstances been allowedto keep him from his will. 

And then it did come to his shrewd mind that these things were notcircumstances, but were barriers forged _by himself_. 

"If I had not been such an awful brute--and the moment had not been--asit was--I might have gradually made her love me and kept her always formy own!" his thoughts ran. "Well--we were both too young then--and now Imust take the consequences and at least not be a swine to poor oldHenry. "

With superb irony, among his letters next morning which he had wired tobe forwarded to Héronac, there came one from his lawyer, informing himthat he had received a guarded communication from his wife'srepresentative, Mr. Parsons--with what practically amounted to a requestthat he, Mr. Arranstoun, should begin to set the law in motion, to breakthe bond between them--and his lawyer inquired what his wishes were uponthe subject and what should be the nature of their reply?

To get this at Héronac--Sabine's house! He shook with fierce laughter inhis bed. 

Then his temper got up, and he came to a fresh determination. He wouldbreak her pride--she should kneel if she wanted her freedom, she shouldhave it only if she asked him for it herself. He would not leave thatday after all! He would stay and play the comedy to its end. While shewould not recognize him, he would not recognize her. It was she who hadset the pace and the responsibility of not informing Henry lay at herdoor. It was a damnably exciting game--far beyond polo or even slayinglong-haired tigers in Manchuria--and he would play it and bluff withouta card in his hand. 

He was not a noble hero, you see, but just a strong and passionate youngman--with "it"!

The day was so gorgeous--Sabine woke with some kind of joyousness. Shewas only twenty-two years old and supremely healthy; and howevercomplicated fate seemed to be, when nerves and appetite are perfect andthe sun is shining, it is really impossible to feel too gloomy. 

Her periwinkle cambric was a reflection of her eyes, and her brown hairseemed filled with rays of gold as she stepped across the courtyard atabout ten o'clock on her way to the garden. Her guests would sleeplate--and at breakfast at twelve would be time enough to see them. 

But Michael caught sight of the top of a wide straw hat, and the flutterof a bluish gown from his window, and did not hesitate for a second. Henry, he knew, was only in his bath, while he himself was fullydressed in immaculate white flannels. 

It did not take him five minutes to gain the courtyard, or to saunterover the causeway bridge, and into the garden--he had brought theEnglish papers with him, which had been among his post. He would pretendhe had sought solitude and would be duly surprised and pleased toencounter his hostess. That he had no business in her private garden atall without her invitation did not trouble him, things like that neverblocked his way; he had always been too welcome anywhere for such anaspect even to have presented itself to him. 

He played his part to perfection--reconnoitering as stealthily as whenhe was stalking big game, until he perceived his quarry at the far endamong the lavender, giving orders to a gardener. He then turned in theopposite direction, with great unconsciousness, to read the paper inpeace apparently being his only care! Here he paced the walk which cutoff her retreat from the gate, never glancing up. Sabine saw him ofcourse, and her heart began to beat--was it possible for a man to be sogood-looking or so utterly casual and devil-may-care! If she walkedtoward the arbor turret he would be obliged to see her when she came tothe end, and then must come up and say good-morning. She picked up herflower-basket and went that way, and with due surprise and pleasure, Michael looked up from his paper at exactly the right moment and caughtsight of her. 

He came toward her with just the proper amount of haste and raised hisstraw hat in a gay good-morning. 

"Isn't it a divine day, " he said. "I had to come out and read thepapers--and the courtyard looked so dull and I did not know where elseto go--it is luck finding you here!"

"I always come into the garden in the morning when it is fine--I knowevery plant and they are all my friends. " Then to hide the pleasurableexcitement she was feeling, she bent down and picked a bit of lavender. 

"I love that smell--won't you give me some, too?" he pleaded--and shehanded him a sprig which he fixed in his white coat. "You have made themost enchanting place of this, " he next told her. "Can't we go up andsit in that summer-house while you tell me how you began? Henry said allthis was a ruin when you bought it some years ago--it is extraordinarilyclever of you. "

Not the slightest embarrassment was in his manner, not the smallest lookof extra meaning in his eyes; he was simply a guest and she a hostess, out together in the sunlight. A sense of unreality stole over Sabine. Itcould not be all true--it was just some dream--a little more vivid, thatwas all, than those which used to come to her of him sometimesduring--that year. She almost felt that she would like to put out herhand and touch him to see if he were tangible or a thing of illusion asshe led the way to the turret summer-house. 

The wall which protected the garden from the sea was very high and thislittle tower had been in the original fortifications and had beencleverly adapted to its present use. It was open, with glass which slidback on the southern side, and its great windows looked out over theblue waters and granite rocks on the other. The little bay curved roundso that from there you got a three-quarter view of the château. 

Sabine put her basket down, and climbing up the wooden step she seatedherself upon the high window-seat, her feet dangling while she openedthe casement wide. Michael stood beside her leaning upon the sill--sothat she was slightly above him. 

"What a glorious view!" he exclaimed; "it is certainly a perfect spot. Why, it has everything! The sea and its waves to dash up at it--and thenthis lovely garden for shelter and peace. What a fortunate young womanyou are!"

"Yes, am I not?"

"I have an old castle, too--perhaps Henry has told you about it. We haveowned it ever since Adam, I suppose!" and he laughed. "The grim part ofthis is rather like it in a way; I mean the stone passages and hugerooms--but of course the architecture is different. It has been thescene of every sort of fight. I should like to show it to you some day. "

Stupefaction rose in Sabine's mind. After all, had she been mistaken, and had he really not recognized her?--or had her acting of the nightbefore convinced him that his first ideas must be wrong and that she wasreally not his wife! Excitement thrilled her. But if he was playing apart, she then must certainly play, too, and not speak to him about thedivorce until he spoke to her. Thus they were unconsciously the one setagainst the other and both determined that the other should show firsthand. It looked as though the interests of Lord Fordyce might be somehowforgotten!

They talked thus for half an hour, Michael asking questions aboutHéronac with polite interest and without ever saying a sentence with adouble meaning, and she replying with frank information, and bothburning with excitement and zest. Then her great charm began to affecthim so profoundly that unconsciously something of eagerness and emotioncrept into his voice. It was one of those voices full of extraordinarilyattractive cadences at any time, and made for the seducing of a woman'sear. Sabine knew that she was enjoying herself with a wild kind offorbidden joy--but she did not analyze its cause. It could not be meanto Henry just to talk about Héronac when she was not by word or lookdeliberately trying to fascinate his friend--she was only beingnaturally polite and casual. 

"Arranstoun only wants the sea, " Michael said at last, "and then itwould be as perfect as this. I have a big, old sitting-room, too, thatwas once part of a great hall, and my bedroom is the other half--a suiteall to myself--but I have not been there for five years--I am going backfrom here. "

"How strange to be away from your home for so long, " Sabine remarkedinnocently. "Where have you been?"

Then he told her all about China and Tibet. 

"I had taken some kind of distaste for Arranstoun and shirked goingthere--I shall have to face it now, I suppose, because it is such hardluck on the people when an owner is away, and so one must come up to thescratch. "

"Yes, " she agreed, "one must always do that. "

"I used to think out a lot of things when I was in the wilds--and I grewto know that one is a great fool when young--and a great brute. "

She began to pull her lavender to pieces--this conversation was growingtoo dangerously fascinating and must be stopped at once. 

"It is getting nearly breakfast-time, " she said gaily, "and I just wantto pick a big bunch of sweet peas before the sun gets on them, won't youhelp me?--and then we will go in. "

She slid to the floor before he could put out a hand to assist her, andwith her swift, graceful movements led the way to the tall sticks wherethe last of the summer sweet peas grew. 

Here she handed him the basket and told him to work hard--and all thewhile she chattered of the ways of these flowers, and the trouble shehad had to make them grow there, and would not once let the conversationupon this subject flag. 

"Some day when I live in England, I suppose I can have a lovely gardenthere--it is famous for gardens, isn't it? I take in _Country Life_ andtry to learn from it. "

"Yes, " he answered, and grew stiff. The sudden picture of her living inEngland--with Henry--came to him as an ugly shock. 

"Before you settle down in England, I would like you to seeArranstoun, --please promise me to come and stay there before you do? Iwill have a party whenever you like. I would love to show it toyou--every part of it--especially the chapel--it is full of wonderfulthings!"

If she chose to give him reminders of aspects which hurt, he would dothe same!

"It sounds most interesting, " she agreed, but had not the courage tomake any remarks about the chapel or ask what it contained. 

The clock over the gateway struck twelve--and she laughingly started towalk very fast toward the house. 

"Madame Imogen and Lord Fordyce will be ravenous--come, let us goquickly--I can even run!"

So they strode on together with the radiant faces of those exalted byan exciting game, on the way passing Père Anselme. 

And in the cool tapestried antechamber of the _salle-à-manger_, theyfound Henry looking from the window a little wistfully, and a pang ofself-reproach struck both their hearts. 

CHAPTER XI

All through breakfast, Sabine devoted herself sedulously to LordFordyce--and this produced two results. It sent Henry into a seventhheaven and caused Michael to burn with jealous rage. Primitive instinctswere a good deal taking possession of him--and he found it extremelydifficult to keep up his rôle of disinterested friend. It must beadmitted he was in really a very difficult position for any man, and itis not very easy to decide what he ought to have done short of tellingHenry the truth at once--but this he found grew every moment more hardto do. It would mean that he would have to leave Héronac immediately. Inany case, he must do this directly. Sabine admitted, even to him, thatshe was his wife. They could not together agree to leave Henry inignorance, that would be deliberately deceiving, and would make themboth feel too mean. But while nothing was even tacitly confessed, thereseemed some straw for his honor to grasp; he clutched at it knowing itsflimsy nature. He had given himself until the next day and now refusedto look beyond that. Every moment Sabine was attracting him moredeeply--and bringing certain memories more vividly before him withmaddening tantalization. 

But did she love Henry? Of that he could not be sure. If she did, hecertainly must divorce her at once. If she did not--why was she wishingto marry him? Henry was an awfully good fellow, far better than he--butafter all, she was his wife--even though he had forfeited all right tocall her so, and if she did not love Henry, no friendship toward himought to be allowed to stand in the way of their reunion. It isastonishing how civilization controls nature! If we put as much forceinto the controlling of our own thoughts as we put into acting up to astandard of public behavior, what wonderful creatures we should become!

Here were these two human beings--young and strong and full of passion, playing each a part with an art as great as any displayed at the ComédieFrançaise! And all for reasons suggested by civilization!--when naturewould have solved the difficulty in the twinkling of an eye!

Michael spent a breakfast hour in purgatory. It was plain to be seenthat Henry expected him to show some desire to go fishing, or to wantsome other sport which required solitude, or only the company of MadameImogen--and his afternoon looked as if it were not going to be a thingof joy. The result of civilization then made him say:

"May I take out that boat I saw in the little harbor after breakfast, Mrs. Howard? I must have some real exercise. Two days in a motor is toomuch. "

And his hostess graciously accorded him a permission, while her heartsank--at least she experienced that unpleasant physical sensation ofheaviness somewhere in the diaphragm which poets have christenedheart-sinking! She knew it was quite the right thing for him to havedone, --and yet she wished fervently that they could have spent anotherhour like the one in the turret summer-house. 

Henry was radiant--and as Michael went off through the postern and downto the little harbor where the boats lay, he asked in fine language whatwere his beloved's wishes for the afternoon?

Sabine felt pettish, she wanted to snap out that she did not care asingle sou what they did, but she controlled herself and answeredsweetly that she would take him all over the château and ask his opinionand advice about some further improvements she meant to make. 

They strolled first to the crenellated wall of the courtyard along whichthere was a high walk from which you looked down upon the boat-house andthe little jetty--this wall made the fourth side of the courtyard, andwith the gate tower, and the concierge's tower across the causeway, andpart of the garden elevation, was the very oldest of the whole château, and dated from early feudal times. 

They leaned upon the stone and looked down at the sea. 

"There are only a very few days in the year that Minne-ha-ha ever comesout of her shed, " Sabine told him, pointing to the boat-house. "Youcannot imagine what the wind is here--even now it may get up in a fewmoments on this glassy sea, or thunder may come--and in the autumn thestorms are too glorious. I sit at one of the big windows in mysitting-room and watch the waves for hours; they break on the rockswhich stretch out from the tower, which is my bedroom on the Finisterreside, and they rise mountain-high; it is a most splendid sight. We are, as it were, in the midst of a cauldron of boiling foam. It exalts andvitalizes me more than I can tell you. I wish it had been the autumnnow. "

"I don't, " he said. "I much prefer the summer and peace. I want to takeaway all that desire for fierce things, dearest--they were the echoes ofthose dark thoughts and shadows which used to be in your eyes atCarlsbad. "

"Ah, if you could!" she sighed. 

It was the first time he had ever seen her moved--and it distressed him. 

"Do you not think that I can, then?" he asked, tenderly. "It is the onlything I really want in life--to make you happy. "

"How good you are, Henry!" she cried; "so noble and unselfish and true;you frighten me. I am just a creature of earth--full of things you maynot like when you know me better. I am sure I think of myself more thanany one else--you make me--ashamed. "

He took her hand and kissed it, while his fine gray eyes melted inworship. 

"I will not even listen when you say such things--for me you areperfect--a pearl of great price. "

"I must try to be, but I am not, " and her voice trembled a little. "Ibelieve I am as full of faults and life as your friend there--Mr. Arranstoun, who I am sure is just a selfish, reckless man!"

Michael at this moment reached the boat-house with old Berthe's son, whobegan to help him to untie the one he wanted. He looked the mostsplendid creature there in his white flannels--and he turned and wavedto them and then got in and pulled out a few yards with long, easystrokes. 

"Michael is a character, " his friend said. "He has been spoilt all hislife by women--and fortune. He has a most strange story. He married agirl about five years ago just to make himself safe from another womanwhom he had been making love to. I was awfully angry with him at thetime--I was staying in the house and I refused to wait for the wedding. I thought it such a shame to the girl, although it was merely an emptyceremony--but she was awfully young, I believe. "

"How interesting!" and Sabine's voice was strained. "You saw thegirl--what was she like?"

"No, I never saw her--it was all settled one afternoon when I wasout--and I thought it such a thundering shame that I left that samenight. "

"And if you had stayed--you would have met her--how curious fate issometimes--isn't it? Perhaps you could have prevented your friend beingso foolish--if you had stayed. "

"No, nothing in the world would ever prevent Michael from doing what hewanted to--it is in the blood of all those old border families--heredityagain--they flourished by imposing their wills recklessly and snatchingand fighting, and who ever survived was a strong man. It has come downto them in force and vigor and daring unto this day. "

"But what happened about the marriage?" Sabine asked. "It interests meso much; it sounds so romantic at this matter-of-fact time. "

"Nothing happened, except that they went through the ceremony and thegirl left at once that same night, I believe, and Michael has never seenor heard of her since--he tells me the time is up now when he candivorce her for desertion, according to Scotch law--and I fancy he will. It is a ridiculous position for them both. He does not even know if shehas not preferred some one else by now. "

"Surely she would have given some sign if she had--but perhaps he doesnot care. "

"Not much. I fancy he amused himself a good deal at Ostende--" andHenry smiled. "He has been away in the wilds for five years andnaturally has come back full of zest for civilization. "

Sabine's full lips curled, and she looked at the sea again, and thefigure in the boat rapidly pulling away from the shore. 

"If he chose to leave her alone all these years, he could not expectanything else, could he, than that she would have grown to care foranother man. "

"No, that is what I told him--and he said he was a dog in the manger. "

"He did not want her himself, and yet did not wish to give her to anyone else--how disgustingly selfish!"

"Men are proverbially selfish, " and Henry smiled again; "it is thenature of the creatures. "

The violet eyes were glowing as stars might glow could they beangry--and their owner turned away from the sea with a fine shrug of hershoulders--her thoughts were raging. So that is how Michael looked uponthe _affaire_! He was just the dog in the manger, and she was the hay!But never, never would she submit to that! She would speak to him whenhe came in and ask him to divorce her at once. Why should Henry everknow?--even if Scotch divorces were reported she would appear, not asMrs. Howard, but as Mrs. Arranstoun, --then a discouraging thoughtcame--only Sabine was such an uncommon name--if it were not for that hemight never guess. But whether Henry ever knew or did not know, thesooner she were free the better, and then she would marry him and adornhis great position in the world--and Michael would see her there, andhow well she fulfilled her duties--so even yet she would be able topunish him as he deserved! Hay! Indeed! Never, never, never!

Then she knew she must have been answering at random some of LordFordyce's remarks, for a rather puzzled look was on his face. 

A strong revulsion of feeling came to her. Henry suddenly appeared inhis best guise--and a wave of tenderness for him swept over her. Howkind and courteous and devoted he was--treating her always as his queen. She could be sure of homage here--and that far from being hay; she wouldbe the most valued jewel in his crown of success. She would rise intospheres where she would be above the paltry emotions caused by a hatefulman just because he had "it"!

So she gave her hand to Henry in a burst of exuberance and let him placeit in his arm, and then lead her back into the château and through allthe rooms, where they discussed blues and greens and stuffs andfurniture and the lowering of this doorway and the heightening of that, and at last they drifted to the garden and to the lavender hedge--butshe would not take him into the summer-house or again look out on thesea. 

All through her sweetness there was a note of unrest--and Henry's finesenses told him so--and this left the one drop of bitterness in hisotherwise blissful cup. 

Michael meanwhile was expending his energy and his passion in swiftmovement in the boat--but after a while he rested on his oars and thenhe began to think. 

There was no use in going on with the game after all--he ought to goaway at once. If he stayed and saw her any more he would not be able toleave her at all. He knew he would only break his promise to Henry--tellSabine that he had fallen madly in love with her--implore her again toforgive him for everything in the past and let them begin afresh. But hewas faced with the horrible thought of the anguish to Henry--Henry, hisold friend, who trusted him and who was ten times more worthy of thisdear woman than he was himself. 

He had never been so full of impotency and misery in his life--not evenon that morning in June when he woke and found Sabine had lefthim--defied him and gone--after everything. Pure rage had come to hisaid then--but now he had only remorse and longing--and anger with fate. 

"It must all depend upon whether or no she loves Henry, " he said tohimself at last--"and this I will make her tell me this very afternoon. "

But when he got back and went into the garden he happened to witness ascene. 

Sabine--overcome by Lord Fordyce's goodness, had let him hold her armwhile her head was perilously near to his shoulder. It all looked veryintimate and lover-like when seen from afar. The greatest pain MichaelArranstoun had ever experienced came into his heart, and without waitinga second he turned on his heel and went back to the house. Here he had abath and changed his clothes, while his servant packed, and then, withthe help of Madame Imogen, he looked up a train. Yes, there was a fastone which went to Paris from their nearest little town--he could justcatch it by ordering Henry's motor--this he promptly did--and leavingthe best excuses he could invent with Madame Imogen, he got in anddeparted a few minutes before his hostess and Lord Fordyce came back totea at five. 

He had written a short note to Sabine--which Nicholas handed to her. 

She opened it with trembling fingers; this was all it was:

 I understand--and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more--perhaps I can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn. 

 Michael Arranstoun. 

It was as well that Lord Fordyce had gone up to his room--for the ladyof Héronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the notein her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her greatsitting-room. 

So he had gone then--and they could have no explanation. But he hadcome out of the manger--and was going to let the other animal eat thehay. 

This, however, was very poor comfort and brought no consolation on itswings. Civilization again won the game. 

For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's volubledescription of Michael's leaving--pressing business which he hadmistaken the date about--finally she had to pour out tea and smilehappily at Henry and Père Anselme. 

But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the windowseat and shook all over with sobs. 

Michael's note to Henry was characteristic:

 I'm bored, my dear Henry--the picture of your bliss is not inspiriting--so I am off to Paris and thence home. I hope you'll think I behaved all right and played the game. 

 Took your motor to catch train. 

 Yrs. , M. A. 

CHAPTER XII

The Père Anselme was uneasy. Very little escaped his observation, and hesaw at tea that his much loved Dame d'Héronac was not herself. She hadnot been herself the night before at dinner either--there was more inthe coming of these two Englishmen than met the eye. He had seen herwith Michael in the morning in the summer-house from a corner of thegarden, too, where he was having a heated argument with the gardener inchief, as well as when he met them on the causeway bridge. He felt ithis duty to do something to smooth matters, but what he could notdecide. Perhaps she would tell him about it on the morrow, when he mether as was his custom on days that were not saints' days interfered withby mass. 

"I shall be at the gate at nine o'clock, _ma fille_, " he said, when hewished her good-day. "With your permission, we must decide about theclematis trellis for the north wall without delay. "

Henry accompanied the old man on his walk back to the village--and theyconversed in cultivated and stilted French of philosophy and of Bretonfisher-folk, and of the strange, melancholy type they seemed to have. 

"They look ever out to sea, " the priest said; "they are watching thedeep waters and are conscious forever of their own and loved ones'dangers--they are _de braves gens_. "

"It seems so wonderful that anything so young and full of life as Mrs. Howard should have been drawn to live in such an isolated place, does itnot, _mon père_?" Henry asked. "It seems incongruous. "

"When she came first she was very sad. She had cause for much sorrow, the dear child--and the sea was her mate; together she and I, with thesea, have studied many things. She deserves happiness, Monsieur, hersoul is as pure and as generous as an angel's--if Monsieur knew what shedoes for my poor people and for all who come under her care!"

"It will be the endeavor of my life to make her happy, Father, " and LordFordyce's voice was full of feeling. 

"Happiness can only be secured in two ways, my son. Either it comes inthe guise of peace, after the flames have burnt themselves out--or itcomes through fusion of love at fever heat----"

"Yes?" Henry faltered, rather anxiously. 

"When there are still some cinders alight--the peaceful happiness is notquite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with somerisks. "

"What makes you say this to me?"

The old priest did not look at him, but continued to gaze ahead. 

"I have the welfare of our Dame d'Héronac very strongly at heart, Monsieur, as you can guess, and I am not altogether sure that thecinders are not still red. It would be well for you to ascertain whetherthis be so or not before you ask her to make fresh bonds. "

"You think she still cares for her husband, then?" Henry was very pale. 

"I do not know that she ever cared--but I do know that even his memoryhas power to disturb her. He must have been just such another as yourfriend, the Seigneur of Arranstoun. It is his presence which hasreminded her of something of the past, since it cannot be he himself. "

"No, of course it cannot be Michael--" and Henry laughed shortly. "He isan Englishman. She had never seen him before yesterday--You think sheseems disturbed?"

"Yes. "

"What would you have me do, then, Father? I love this woman more than mylife and only desire her happiness. "

The Curé of Héronac shrugged his high shoulders slightly. 

"It is not for me to give advice to a man of the world--but had it beenin the days when I was Gaston d'Héronac, of the Imperial Guard, I shouldhave told you--Use your intelligence, search, investigate for yourself. Make her love you--leave nothing vague or to chance. As a priest, I mustsay that I find all divorces wrong--and that for me she should remainthe wife of the other man. "

"Even when the man is a drunkard or a lunatic, and there have been nochildren?" Henry demanded. 

A strange look came in the old Curé's eye as he glanced at his companioncovertly, and for a second it seemed as though he meant to speak histhought--but the only words which came were in Latin:

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder, " and thenhe held out his thin, brown hand; they had reached his door. 

"In all cases you have my good wishes, my son, for you seem worthy ofher--my good wishes and my prayers. "

Lord Fordyce mounted the stairs to his lady's sitting-room with laggingsteps. The Père Anselme's advice had caused him to think deeply, and itwas necessary that he had speech with Sabine, if she would let him comeback into her sitting-room. He knocked at the door softly, as was hisway, and when her voice said "_Entrez_" rather impatiently he did enterand advance with diffidence. She was sitting with her back to the lightin one of the great window embrasures, so that he could not see theexpression upon her face--and her tone became gentle as she welcomedhim. 

"The evening is so glorious, come and watch the sunset; but there is alittle look of thunder there in the far west--to-morrow we may have astorm. "

Henry sat down beside her on the orange velvet seat--and his eyes, fullof love and tenderness, sought her face beseechingly. 

"I shall simply hate going the day after to-morrow, dearest, " he said. "If it were not for the sternest duty to my mother, I would ask you tokeep me until Friday--it will be such pain to tear myself away. "

"You have been dear, " she answered very low. "You have shown me whatreal love in a man means--what tenderness and courtesy can make of life. Henry--however wayward I may be, you will bear with me, will you not? Iwant to be good and happy--" Her sweet voice, with its faintly Frenchaccent, was full of pathos as a child's might be who is asking forcomfort and sympathy for some threatened hurt. "Oh! I want to be in thesure shelter of your love always, so that storms like that one coming upover there cannot touch me. I want you to make me forget--everything. "

He was so deeply moved, tears sprang to his eyes--as he bent and kissedher hands with reverence. 

"My darling--you shall indeed be worshipped and protected and kept fromall clouds--only first tell me, Sabine, straight from your heart, doyou really and truly desire to marry me? I do not ask you to tell methat you love me yet, because I know that you do not--but I want to knowthe truth. If you have a single doubt whether it is for your happiness, tell it to me--let there be no uncertainties between us--my dearlove----"

She was silent for a moment, while his tenderness seemed to be pouringbalm upon her troubled spirit. 

"My God!" he cried, fearing her silence. "Sabine, speak to me--I willnot hold you for a second if you would rather be free--if you think Icannot chase all sad memories away. "

She put out her hand and touched his arm. 

"If you will be content to take me, knowing that I have things toforget--and if you will help me to forget them, then I know that I wantto marry you, Henry--just as to-night perhaps that little sail we seeout there will long to get in to a safe port. "

He gave her his promise--with passionately loving words, that he wouldprotect and adore her always, and soothe and cherish her until allhaunting memories were gone. 

And for the first time since they had known one another, Sabine let himfold her in his arms. 

But the lips which he pressed so fondly were cold, like death--andafterwards she went quickly to her room. 

The die was irrevocably cast--she could never go back now; she was asfirmly bound to Henry as if she had been already his wife. 

For her nature was tender and honest and true--and Lord Fordyce hadtouched the highest chord in it, the chord of her soul. 

But, as she stood looking from the narrow, deep casement up at theevening sky, suddenly, with terrible vividness, there came back to hermental vision the chapel at Arranstoun upon her wedding night, with itsgorgeous splendors and the candles and the lilies and their strongscent, and it was as if she could feel Michael's kiss when the oldclergyman's words were done. 

She started forward with a little moan, and put her hands over her eyes. Then her will reasserted itself, and her firm lips closed tight. 

Nothing should make her waver or alter her mind now--and thesephantasies should be ruthlessly stamped out. 

She sat down in an armchair, and forced herself to picture her life withHenry. It would be full of such great and interesting things, and hewould be there to guide and protect her always and keep her from allregrets. 

So presently she grew calm and comforted, and by the time she wasdressed for dinner, she was even bright and gay, and made a most sweetand gracious mistress of Héronac and of the heart of Henry Fordyce. Just as they were leaving the dining-room, Nicholas brought her amessage from Père Anselme, to the effect that a very bad storm wascoming up, and she must be sure to have the great iron shutters insidethe lower dungeon windows securely closed. He had already told Berthe'sson to take in the little boat. 

And as they crossed the connecting passage, Madame Imogen gave a scream, for a vivid flash of lightning came in through the openwindows--followed by a terrific crash of thunder, and when they reachedthe sitting-room the storm had indeed come. 

It was past midnight when Michael reached Paris, and, going in to theRitz, met Miss Daisy Van der Horn and a number of other friends justleaving after a merry dinner in a private room. They greeted him withfervor. Where had he been? And would not he dress quickly and come on tosupper with them?

"Why, you look as glum as an owl, Michael Arranstoun!" Miss Van der Hornherself informed him. "Just you hustle and put on your evening things, and we'll make you feel a new man. "

And with the most supreme insolence, before them all he bent down andkissed both her hands--while his blue eyes blazed with devilment as heanswered:

"I will join you in half an hour--but if you pull me out of bed likethis, you will have to make a night of it with me. You shan't go home atall!"

CHAPTER XIII

A whole month went by, and after the storm peace seemed to coverHéronac. Sabine gardened with Père Anselme, and listened to his kindly, shrewd common sense, and then they read poetry in the afternoons whentea was over. They read Béranger, François Villon, Victor Hugo, andevery now and then they even dashed into de Musset!

The good Father felt more easy in his mind. After all, his impressionsof Lord Fordyce's character had been very high, and he was not apt tomake mistakes in people--perhaps le bon Dieu meant to make an exceptionin favor of the beloved Dame d'Héronac, and to find divorce a goodthing! Sabine had heard from Mr. Parsons that the negotiations hadcommenced. It would be some time, though, before she could be free. Shemust formally refuse to return when the demand asking her to do soshould come. This she was prepared to carry out. She firmly anddeterminedly banished all thought of Michael from her mind, and hardlyever went into the garden summer-house--because, when she did, she sawhim too plainly standing there in his white flannels, with the sprig ofher lavender in his coat and his bold blue eyes looking up at her withtheir horribly powerful charm. The force of will can do such wondersthat, as the days went on, the pain and unrest of her hours lessened ina great degree. 

Every morning there came an adoring letter from Henry, in which he neversaid too much or too little, but everything that could excite hercultivated intelligence and refresh her soul. In all the after years ofher life, whatever might befall her, these letters of Henry's would havea lasting influence upon her. They polished and moulded her taste; andput her on her mettle to answer them, and gradually they grew to be anabsorbing interest. He selected the books she was to read, and sent herboxes of them. It had been agreed before he left that he would notreturn to Héronac for some time; but that in late October, when thePrincess and Mr. Cloudwater got back to Paris, that if they could bepersuaded to come to London, Sabine would accompany them, and make theacquaintance of Henry's mother and some of his family--who would be inignorance of there being any tie between them, and the whole thing couldbe done casually and with good sense. 

"I want my mother and my sisters to love you, darling, " Henry wrote, "without a prejudiced eye. My mother would find you perfect, whateveryou were like, if she knew that you were my choice--and for the samereason my sisters would perhaps find fault with you; so I want you tomake their conquest without any handicap. "

Sabine, writing one of her long letters to Moravia in Italy, said:

 I am very happy, Morri. This calm Englishman is teaching me such a number of new aspects of life, and making me more determined than ever to be a very great lady in the future. We are so clever in our nation, and all the young vitality in us is so splendid, when it is directed and does not turn to nerves and fads. I am growing so much _finer_, my dear, under his guidance. You will know me when we meet--because each day I grow more to understand. 

The Père Anselme had only one moment of doubt again, just the lastmorning before his Dame d'Héronac left for Paris when October had come. It was raining hard, and he found her in the great sitting-room with alegal-looking document in her hand. Her face was very pale, and lying onthe writing-table beside her was an envelope directed and stamped. 

It contained her refusal to return to her husband signed and sealed. 

The old priest did not ask her any questions; he guessed, andsympathized. 

But his lady was too restless to begin their reading, and stole fromwindow to window looking out on the gray sea. 

"I shall come here for six months in the year just as always, Father, "she said at last. "I can never sever myself from Héronac. "

"God forbid, " exclaimed the priest, aghast. "If you left us, the sun nomore would seem to shine. "

"And sometimes I will come--alone--because there will be times, myFather, when I shall want to fight things out--alone. "

The Père Anselme took some steps nearer her, and after a moment said, ina grave voice:

"Remember always, my daughter, that le bon Dieu settles things for usmortals if we leave it all to Him--but if we take the helm in thedirection of our own affairs, it may be He will let circumstance draw usinto rough waters. In that case, the only thing for us is to be true toour word and to our own souls--and to use common sense. "

Sabine looked at him with somber, startled eyes. 

"You mean, that I decided to help myself, Father--about the divorce--andthat now I must look only to myself--It is a terrible thought. "

"You are strong, my child; it may be that you were directed from above, I cannot say, " and he shrugged his shoulders gently. "Only that the goodGod is always merciful. What you must be is true to yourself. _Paxvobiscum_, " and he placed his hand upon her head. 

But, for once, Sabine lost control of her emotions and, bursting into apassion of tears, she rushed from the room. 

"Alas! all is well?" said the priest, half aloud, and then he knelt bythe window and prayed fervently--without telling his beads. 

But, at breakfast, Sabine's eyes were dry again, and she seemed quitecalm. She, too, had held communion with herself, and her will had oncemore resumed the mastery. This should be the last exhibition ofweakness--and the last feeling of weakness; and as she would suppressthe outward signs, so she would crush the inner emotion. All life lookedsmiling. She was young, healthy and rich. She had inspired the devotedlove of a good and great man, whose position would give scope for herambitions, whose intellect was a source of pleasure and joy to her, andwhose tenderness would smooth all her path. What right had she to haveeven a crumpled rose leaf! None in the world. 

She must get accustomed even to hearing of Michael, and perhaps tomeeting him again face to face, since Henry was never to know--or, atleast, not for years perhaps, when she had been so long happily marriedthat the knowledge would create no jar. And at all events, he need notknow--of the afterwards--that should remain forever locked in her heart. Then she resolutely turned to lighter thoughts--her clothes in Paris, the pleasure to see Moravia again--the excitement of her trip toLondon, where she had never been, except to pass through that once longago. 

The Père Anselme came to the station with her, and as he closed the doorof the reserved carriage she was in, he said:

"Blessings be upon your head, my child. And, whatever comes, may thegood God direct you into peace. "

Then he turned upon his heel, his black eyes dim--for the autumn monthswould be long with only Madame Imogen for companion, beside hisflock--and the sea. 

Michael had got back from Paris utterly disgusted with life, sick withhimself. Bitterly resentful against fate for creating such a tangledskein, and dangling happiness in front of him only to snatch it awayagain. He went up to Arranstoun and tried to play his part in therejoicings at his return. He opened the house, engaged a full staff ofservants, and filled it with guests. He shot with frantic eagerness forone week, and then with indifference the next. Whatever he may have donewrong in his life, his punishment had come. He had naturally an ironwill, and when he began to use it to calm his emotions, a better stateof things might set in, but for the time being he was just drifting, andsorrow was his friend. 

His suite at Arranstoun--which he had never seen since the day after hiswedding, having gone up to London that very next night, and from theremade all his arrangements for the China trip--gave him a shock--he whohad nerves of steel--and into the chapel he loathed to go. His oneconsolation was that Binko, now seven years old, had not transferred hisaffection to Alexander Armstrong, with whom he had spent the time; butafter an hour or two had rapturously appeared to remember his master, and now never, if he could help it, left his side. 

Michael took to reading books--no habit of his youth!--although hisshrewd mind had not left him in the usual plight of blank ignorance, which is often the portion of a splendid, young athlete leaving Eton!But now he studied subjects seriously, and the whys and wherefores ofthings; and he grew rather to enjoy the evenings alone, between thegoings and comings of his parties, when, buried in a huge chair beforehis log fire, with only Binko's snorts for company, he could pore oversome volume of interest. He studied his family records, too, getting allsorts of interesting documents out of his muniment room. 

What a fierce, brutal lot they had always been! No wonder the chapel hadto be so gloriously filled--and then there came to his memory the onelittle window which was still plain, and how he had told Sabine that hesupposed it had been left for him to garnish--as an expiatoryoffering--the race being so full of rapine and sin!

Should he put the gorgeous glass in now--it was time. But a glasswindow could not prevent the punishment--since it had already fallenupon him, nor even alleviate the suffering. 

He was staring straight in front of him at the picture of Mary, Queen ofScots', landing--it had been painted at about 1850, when romanticsubjects of that sort were in vogue, and "the fellow in the bluedoublet" was said, by the artist, to represent the celebrated Arranstounof that time. The one who had killed a Moreton and stolen his wife. Nodoubt that is why his grandfather had bought it. He thought it lookedvery well over the secret door, and then he deliberately let himselfpicture how it had once fallen forward, and all the circumstances whichhad followed in consequence. He reconstructed every word he couldremember of his and Sabine's conversation that afternoon. He repicturedher innocent baby face--and from there on to the night of the wedding. He reviewed all his emotions in the chapel, and the strange exaltationwhich was upon him then--and the mad fire which awoke in his blood withhis first kiss or of her fresh young lips when the vows were said. Everyminute incident was burned into his memory until the cutting of thecake--after that it seemed to be a chaos of wild passion, and moments ofextraordinary bliss. He suddenly could almost see her little head thereunresisting on his breast, all tears and terror at last hushed to restby his fond caresses--and then he started from his seat--the memory wastoo terribly sweet. 

He had, of course, been the most frightful brute. Nothing could alter orredeem that fact; but when sleep came to them at length he had believedthat he had made her forgive him, and that he could teach her to lovehim and have no regrets. Then the agony to wake and find her gone!

What made her go after all? How had she slipped from his arms withoutawakening him? If he had only heard her when she was stealing from theroom, he could have reasoned with her, and even have again caught herand kissed her into obedience--but he had slept on. 

He remembered all his emotions--rage at her daring to cross his will tobegin with, and then the deep wound to his self-love. That is what hadmade him write the hard letter which forever put an end to theirreunion. 

"What a paltry, miserable, arrogant wretch I was then, " he thought--"andhow pitifully uncontrolled. "

But all was now too late. 

The next morning's post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, inwhich he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he hadreturned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied. The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness. He was utterly absorbedin his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed sopeaceful and joyous, it was evident she must reciprocate. Well, Henrywas worthy of her--but this in no way healed the hurt. Michael violentlytore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in himagain. He wanted to slay something; he almost wished his friend had beenan enemy that he could have gone out and fought with him and reseizedhis bride. What matter that she should be unwilling--the Arranstounbrides had often been unwilling. She had been unwilling before, and hehad crushed her resistance, and even made her eventually show him someacquiescence and content. He could certainly do it again, and with morechance of success, since she was a woman now and not a child, and wouldbetter understand emotions of love. 

He stood there shaking with passion. What should he do? What step shouldhe take? Then Binko, who had emerged from his basket, gave a tinyhalf-bark--he wanted to express his sympathy and excitement. If hisbeloved master was transported with rage, it was evidently the momentfor him to show some feeling also, and to go and seize by the throat manor beast who had caused this tumult. 

His round, faithful, adoring eyes were upturned, and every fat wrinklequivered with love and readiness to obey the smallest command, while hesnorted and slobbered with emotion. Something about him touched Michael, and made him stoop and seize him in his arms and roll the solid mass onthe bed in rough, loving appreciation. 

"You understand, old man!" he cried fondly. "You'd go for Henry oranyone--or hold her for me"--And then the passion died out of him, asthe dog licked his hand. "But we have been brutes once too often, Binko, and now we'll have to pay the price. She belongs to Henry, who's behavedlike a gentleman--not to us any more. "

So he rang for his valet and went to his bath quietly, and thus endedthe storm of that day. 

And Henry Fordyce in London was awaiting the arrival of hiswell-beloved, who, with the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater, was due to beat the Ritz Hotel that evening, when they would dine all together andspend a time of delight. 

And far away in Brittany, the Père Anselme read in his book ofmeditations:

 It is when the sky is clearest that the heaviest bolt falls--it would be well for all good Christians to be on the alert. 

And chancing to look from his cottage window, he perceived that a heavyrain cloud had gathered over the Château of Héronac. 

CHAPTER XIV

In the morning before they left Héronac, Sabine's elderly maid, Simone, came to her with the face she always wore when her speech might containany reference to the past. She had been with Sabine ever since the weekafter her marriage, and was a widow and a Parisian, with a kind andmotherly heart. 

"Will madame take the blue despatch-box with her as usual?" she asked. 

Sabine hesitated for a second. She had never gone anywhere without it inall those five years--but now everything was changed. It might be wiserto leave it safely at Héronac. Then her eyes fell upon it, and a slightshudder came over her of the kind which people describe as "a goosewalking over your grave. "

No, she could not leave it behind. 

"I will take it, Simone. "

"As madame wishes, " and the maid went on her way. 

 * * * * *

When Sabine had reached London late on that evening in the June of 1907on her leaving Scotland she found, in response to the wire she had senthim from Edinburgh, Mr. Parsons waiting for her at the station, hisastonishment as great as his perturbation. 

Her words had been few; her young mind had been firmly made up in thetrain coming south. No one should ever know that there had been anydeviation from the original plan she had laid out for herself. With aforce of will marvellous in one of her tender years, she had controlledher extreme emotion, and except that she looked very pale and seemedvery determined and quiet, there were no traces of the furnace throughwhich she had passed, in which had perished all her old conceptions ofexistence, although as yet she realized nothing but that she wanted togo away and to be free and forget her tremors, and presently joinMoravia. 

The marriage had been perfectly legal, as the certificate showed, andMr. Parsons, whatever his personal feelings about the matter were, knewthat he had not the smallest control over her--and was bound to handover to her her money to do with as she pleased. 

She merely told him the facts--that the marriage had been only anarrangement to this end--Mr. Arranstoun having agreed before theceremony that this should be so--and that she wanted to engage a goodmaid and go over to Paris as soon as possible, to see her friend thePrincess Torniloni. 

She had decided in the train that her methods with all who opposed hermust be as they used to be with Sister Jeanne--a statement of herintentions, and then silence and no explanations. Sister Jeanne hadgiven up all argument with her in her last year at the convent!

Mr. Parsons soon found that his words were falling upon deaf ears, andwere perfectly useless. She had cut herself adrift from her aunt anduncle, whom she cordially disliked, leaving them a letter to tell themthat as she was now her own mistress, she never meant to trouble them orMr. Greenbank again, and she bid them adieu!

"It is not as if they had ever been the least kind to me, " she didcondescend to inform the lawyer. "They couldn't bear me really--Samuel, although he was such a poor creature, was far the best of them. Unclewas only wanting my money for him, and Aunt Jemima detested me, and onlyhad me with her because Papa left in his will that she had to, or losehis legacy. You can't think what I've learned of their meannesses in themonth I've know them!"

Thus Mr. Parsons had no further arguments to use--and felt that afterseeing her safe to his own hotel that night, and helping to engage asuitable and responsible maid next day to travel with her, he could dono more. 

The question of the name troubled him most, and he almost refused toagree that she should be known as Mrs. Howard. 

"But I have told Mr. Arranstoun that I mean to be only that!" Sabineexclaimed, "and he didn't mind, and"--here her violet eyes flashed--"I_will not_ be anything else--so there!"

Mr. Parsons shrugged his shoulders; she was impossible to deal with, andas he himself was obliged to return to America in the following week, hefelt the only thing to do was to let her have her way. And so well didhe guard his client's secret then and afterwards, that even Simone, though a shrewd Frenchwoman, had never known that her mistress' name wasnot really Howard. At the time of her being engaged she was just leavingan American lady from the far West whom Mr. Parsons knew of, and she wasdelighted to come as maid and almost chaperon to this sweet, but wilfulyoung lady. 

So they had gone to Paris together, to order clothes--such a joyoustask--and to make herself forget those hours so terribly full of strangeemotion was all which occupied Sabine's mind at this period. Otherpreoccupations came later; and it was then that she listened to Simone'ssuggestion of going to San Francisco. The maid knew it well, and therethey spent several months in a quiet hotel. But they neither of themcared much to remember those days, and nothing would have ever inducedSabine to return thither. 

 * * * * *

She thought of these things now, as Simone left the room with the bluecase, but she put from her all disturbing remembrances on her journey toParis, and rushed into Moravia's arms, who was waiting for her in herpalatial apartment in the Avenue du Bois; they really loved one another, these two women, as few sisters do. 

"Sabine, you darling!" the Princess cried, while Girolamo, kept up anhour later to welcome his god-mamma, screamed with joy. 

"Now tell me everything, everything, pet!" Moravia demanded, as shepoured out the tea. "Has the divorce been settled? How soon will you befree? When can you get married to this nice Englishman?"

"I don't exactly know, Morri--the law is such a strange thing; however, my--husband--has agreed and begun to take the necessary steps byrequesting me to go back to him, which I have refused to do. "

"You are looking perfectly splendid, dear. Having all that brainstimulation evidently suits you. Wasn't the visit of Lord Fordycedelightful in that romantic old castle? What did you do all the time?and what was the friend like?--you did not tell me. "

Sabine stirred her tea. 

"He only stayed one night--he was quite a nice creature--Mr. Arranstoun. "

"Of the castle?" The Princess was thrilled. "Why, darling, he must bethe one that they say is going to marry Daisy Van der Horn. He has gotsome matrimonial tangle like you have, and when he is through with it, Daisy is such dead nuts on him, they say she is certain to get him tomarry her! Do tell me exactly what he is like--I am not over fond ofDaisy, you know--but she is a splendid specimen of dash and vim. "

"He is good-looking, Morri--and he has got 'it. '"

"I gathered that from all that I have heard of him here. Old MissBuskin, Daisy's aunt, you remember the old horror, says he is 'just toosweet, ' and 'that sassy'--you know her frightfully vulgar way ofspeaking!--that even she is 'afraid to be alone in the room with him!'"

"I dare say--he--looked like that--he ought to suit Daisy, " and thenSabine felt she had been spiteful and tried to divert matters by askingwhere Mr. Cloudwater was. 

"Papa will be in in a moment. He has been dying for you to come back. "But the Princess had not done with Mr. Arranstoun yet. The Van der Horncoterie had rung with his exploits on her return from Italy, and thelurid picture had interested her deeply. 

"I do wish I had been at Héronac, Sabine, I would love to have seen thatyoung man. Daisy's aunt told me he was wild about her niece, and at onemoment she thought everything was settled--it must have been after hecame back from Brittany--and then he went off to England--probably hedoes not like to speak out until he is free. "

Sabine felt that strange sensation she had experienced once before, ofheart sinking--and then, furious with herself, she mastered it andbecame more determined than ever to carry out her intention of growingaccustomed to hearing of, and talking about Michael calmly. 

"You are sure to meet him in England, " she said; "he is a great friendof Henry's. "

But afterwards, when she was alone resting in her cosy room beforedinner, she deliberately pulled the blue despatch-box toward her andlooked at some of its contents, while tears gathered in her eyes, whicheven the cynical thoughts which she was calling to her aid could notquite suppress. Would things have been different if she had been able tosend Michael the letter which she had written to him in the September of1907? The letter she had asked Mr. Parsons, who was again in London, tohave delivered to him, into his hand--and which came back to her inParis with the information from the old lawyer that Mr. Arranstoun hadleft England for the wilds of China and Tibet, and might not get anyletters for more than a year. She remembered how that night she hadcried herself to sleep with misery, and with a growing regret at havingleft Michael, and a pitiful longing just to be clasped once more in hisstrong arms and comforted. Oh! the hateful wretched memories! To havegone off at once to China like that proved his callousness andindifference. Then, in spite of herself, her thoughts would review allhe had said to her on that morning in the garden. No--there had not beenone word of meaning, not even any suggestion of regret that she waspractically engaged to Henry. There had been some faint allusion topeople being fools--and brutes when young, but not that they would wishto repair the faults which they had committed then. The whole thing wasplain--he had never really cared an atom for her. He had been onlyaffected by passion, even on her wedding night when he was pouring lovevows into her startled ears. 

"He was probably horribly surprised to come upon me at Héronac, " herthoughts now ran, "and then just sampled me--and went off as soon as hecould--back to Daisy in Paris!"

Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears. 

Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun. She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption inHenry, and her complete indifference to himself. His vanity would bewounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger. That would beher only revenge--and what a paltry one! She felt that--and was ashamedof herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love iswounded and the passion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabinewas no better nor worse than any other woman probably. Once more shemade resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael eithergood or bad. It was perfectly sickening--the humiliation and degradationof his so frequently coming into her mind. She pulled the despatch-boxnearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope abrown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire. 

"There! that is done with--ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!"

And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone andbegan to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks. 

They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them atCharing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel. 

How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked! He was as ever asoothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing indeciding to link her life with his. 

But it was not so with Moravia. Lord Fordyce had attracted her from themoment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again hadboiled up; and alas! Moravia--beautiful young widow and Princess--foundherself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeplyinterested in the declared lover of her friend. Henry for her had everycharm. He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with thatwell-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabinehad always said irritated her so. 

It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminineinstinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all. If shehad felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it wasfate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actuallyto feel unhappy. They were continually surrounded with friends, and atevery meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delightin. People were just beginning to come back to London, and they hadamusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry's family, anintelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them. ThePrincess had very seldom been in London before--and quite understoodthat, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoiltall her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn's petexpressions, "terribly amused. " Sabine, as the days wore on, and she wasunder Henry's influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grewhappy, and heard Michael's name without a tremor. 

For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much shewould like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris. 

"I had a letter from him this morning, " Lord Fordyce said. "He isshooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Fridaynight. I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what youthink of him. He really is a very charming fellow, for all hisrecklessness--and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you ofhim are overdrawn. "

"Oh, I hope not!" Moravia laughed. "Do not disillusion me!"

Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who hadwired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Fridayand go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would findanother occasion to present his friend. 

To him, Henry, this week in late October had been one of almostunalloyed happiness--although he could have dispensed with thecontinuous parties; still, he felt the Princess had to be amused, andperhaps in a larger company he got more chance of speaking to hisbeloved alone. 

The position of a man nearly always affects women--and the great andunmistakable prestige, which it was plain to be seen Henry possessed, had added to his charm in both Moravia and Sabine's eyes. It gratifiedSabine's vanity. She knew this, she was quite cognizant of the fact thatit pleased her. She felt glad and proud that she should occupy soexalted a place in the world's eyes, as she would do as his wife. Surelyall the great duties and interests of that position would make lifevery fair. It would be such peace and relief when the divorceproceedings would come on and be finished with--a much less tiresomeaffair in Scotland, she had heard, than in an English court. 

When Michael Arranstoun got Henry's wire asking him to dine, he laughedbitterly. There was something so cynically entertaining in the idea ofthe whole situation! He was being asked out to meet the wife whom he wasmadly in love with, and was preparing to divorce for desertion, so thatshe might marry the giver of the invitation!

He was tempted to accept for a second or two, the desire to see heragain was growing almost more than he could bear; but at this period hehad still strength to refuse--and then, as the days went on, it seemedthat nothing gave him any pleasure, and that constantly and incessantlyhis thoughts turned to one subject. If there had been no friendship orhonor mixed up in the thing, nothing would have been simpler than to sitdown and write to Henry telling him plainly that Sabine was hiswife--and that she must choose between them. But then he rememberedthat, apart from all friendship, Sabine had already plainly expressedher choice, and that he had absolutely no right to hold her in any waysince he had given her permission all those years ago to make what shechose of her life. He had not yet instructed his lawyers to begin actualproceedings--he was in a furnace of indecision and unrest. He wouldlike just somehow to get Sabine to Arranstoun first--then, if after thatshe still plainly showed that she loved Henry, he would make himself goahead with the freedom scheme; but if he commenced actual proceedingsnow, by no possibility could she come to Arranstoun--and this idea--toget her to Arranstoun, began to be an obsession. Just in proportion ashis nature was wild and rebellious, so the mad longing grew and grew inhim to induce her to come once more into his house. 

And it would seem that fate at first intended to assist him in this, foron the second of November the party went up North to stay with RoseForster, Henry's sister, at Ebbsworth for a great ball she was givingfor a newly married niece. 

CHAPTER XV

For a day or two, Michael Arranstoun could not make up his mind, when heheard of the Ebbsworth ball, as to whether or no he ought to go to it. He had several conversations with Binko upon the subject, and finallycame to the conclusion that he would go. He had grown so desperatelyunhappy by this time, that he cared no more whether it were right orwrong--he must see Sabine. He had not believed that it could be possiblefor him to suffer to such a degree about a woman. He _must_ satisfyhimself absolutely as to the fact of her loving Henry. 

Rose Forster had written, of course, to ask him to stay in the house forit--holding out the bait that she had two absolutely charming Americanscoming. So Michael fell--and accepted, not without excusing himself toBinko as he finished writing out his wire:

 Thousand thanks. I will come. 

"I am a coward, Binko--I ought to have the pluck to go off to Timbuctooand let Henry have a fair field--but I haven't and must be certainfirst. "

They were all at tea in the library at Ebbsworth when he arrived, having motored over from Arranstoun after lunch. 

Everyone was enchanted to see him, and greeted him with delight. He knewalmost the whole twenty of them, most of whom were old friends. 

The hostess took him over to the tea table, and sitting near it in aravishing tea-gown was Moravia. Rose Forster introduced him casually, while she poured him out some tea. 

The library was a big room with one or two tall screens, and from behindthe furthest one there came a low, rippling laugh. The sound of itmaddened Michael, and his bold blue eyes blazed as he began to talk tothe Princess. His naturally easy manners made him able to carry on somekind of a conversation, but his whole attention was fixed upon thewhereabouts of Sabine. She was with Henry, of course, behind thatSpanish leather screen. He hardly even noticed that Moravia was a verypretty woman, most wonderfully dressed; but he felt she was a powerfulunit in his game of getting Sabine to Arranstoun, and so he endeavoredto make himself agreeable to her. 

Presently, in the general move, Lord Fordyce and his lady love emergedwith two other people they had been talking to, and Henry came up toMichael with outstretched hand. 

He was awfully glad to see him, he said. Then this estranged husbandand wife were face to face. 

It was a wonderful moment for both of them, and with all the schoolingthat each one had been through, it was extremely difficult to behavenaturally. Michael did not fight with himself, except to keep from alloutward expression; he knew he was simply overcome with emotion; butSabine continued to throw dust in her own eyes. The sudden wild beatingof her heart she put down to every other reason but the true one. It wasmost wrong of Michael to have come to this party; but it was, of course, done out of bravado to show her that she did not matter to him atall--so with supreme sangfroid she greeted him casually, and then turnedeyes of tenderness to Henry. 

"You were going to show me the miniatures in the next room, LordFordyce--were you not?" she said, sweetly, and took a step on toward thedoor, leaving Michael with pain and rage for company. 

She had never allowed Henry to kiss her since that one occasion atHéronac. It was not as it should be, she affirmed--until she were freeand really engaged to him, she prayed him to behave always only as afriend. Lord Fordyce acquiesced, as he would have done to any penanceshe chose to impose upon him, and in his secret thoughts ratherrespected her for her decision; he was then more than delighted when sheput her slender hand upon his arm with possessive familiarity as soonas they had reached the anteroom where the collection of miniatures werekept; but he did not know that she was aware that Michael stood where hecould see them through the archway. 

"My darling!" and he lifted the white fingers to his lips. Sabine hadparticularly beautiful hands, and they were his delight. She never woreany rings--only her wedding-ring and the one great pearl Henry hadpersuaded her to let him give her, but this was on her right hand. 

"It would mean nothing for me to have it on the left one--while that barof gold is there, " she had told him. "I will only take it if you let mehave it as a gage of friendship, " and as ever he agreed. He was sopassionately in love with her, there was nothing in the world he wouldnot have done or left undone to please her. His eye followed her alwayswith rapture, and her slightest wish was instantly obeyed. Sabine wasnaturally an autocrat, and, but for the great generosity of her spirit, might have made him suffer considerably, but she did not, beingconsistently gentle and sweet. 

"My darling!" Henry repeated, in the little anteroom, while his fondeyes devoured her face. "Sometimes I love you so it frightens me--MyGod, if anything were to take you from me now, I do not think I couldbear it. "

Sabine shivered as she bent down to look at a case of Cosways in a showtable. 

"Nothing can take you from me, Henry--unless something goes wrong aboutthe divorce. My lawyer arrives in England to-day from America on purposeto consult me and see what can be done to hasten matters. My--husband--has not as yet started the proceedings it seems. "

Lord Fordyce's face paled. 

"Does that mean anything sinister, dearest?" he demanded, with a quiverin his cultivated voice. "Sabine, you would tell me, would you not, ifthere were anything to fear?"

"I do not myself know what it means--I may have some news to-morrow--letus forget about it to-night. Oh! I want to be happy just for to-night, Henry!" and she held out her hand again pleadingly. 

"Indeed, you shall be, darling, " and splendid and unselfish gentlemanthat he was, he crushed down his anguish, and used all his clever brainto divert and entertain her, and presently all the women went up todress for dinner and the ball, and Lord Fordyce found Michael in thesmoking-room. He had really a deep affection for him; he had known himever since he was an absolutely fearless, dare-devil little boy, the joyand pride of his father, Henry's old friend, and in spite of the fullten years' difference in their ages, they had ever been closest alliesuntil their break at Arranstoun, and then Michael's five years abroadhad made a gap, bridged over now since his return. Lord Fordyce feltthat Michael's intense vitality and radiating magnetism would berefreshing in the depressed state into which his lady love's words hadthrown him, and he drew him over with him, and they sat down in two bigchairs apart from the rest of the festive groups--some playing bridge orbilliards. Michael was in no gentle temper, and Henry was the lastperson he wished to talk to. He knew he ought not to have come, he knewthat he ought to tell Henry straight out and then go off before theball. He felt he was behaving like the most despicable coward; and yet, if it were possible for Henry never to know that he, Michael, wasSabine's husband, it would save his friend much pain. He was smartingunder Sabine's insolent dismissal of him, and burning with jealousy overthat witnessed caress, the violent passions of his race were surging upand causing a devil of recklessness to show in his very handsome face. Lord Fordyce saw that something had disturbed him. 

"What's up, Michael, old boy?" he asked. "I haven't seen you look solike Black James since you got Violet Hatfield's letter and did not seehow you could get out of marrying her. "

Black James was a famous Arranstoun of the Court of James IV ofScotland, whose exploits had been the terror and admiration of the wholecountry, and who was even yet a byword for recklessness and savagery. 

Michael laughed. 

"Poor old Violet!" he said. "She will soon be bringing out herdaughter. I saw her the other day in London; she cut me dead!"

"That was an escape!" and Henry lit a cigar. "However, as you know, ayear after weeping crocodile tears for poor Maurice, she married youngLayard of Balmayn. So all's well that ends well. She and Rose have neverspoken since the scene when Violet read in the _Scotsman_ that you hadgot married!"

"Don't let's talk of it!" returned Mr. Arranstoun. "The whole thought ofmarriage and matrimony makes me sick!"

"Are you in some fresh scrape?" Henry exclaimed. 

Michael put his head down doggedly, while his eyes flashed and he bitoff the end of his cigar. 

"Yes, the very devil of a hole--but this time no one can help me withadvice or even sympathy; I must get out of the tangle myself. "

"I am awfully sorry, old man. "

"It is my own fault, that is what hurts the most. "

"I do not feel particularly brilliant to-night either, " Henry announced. "The divorce proceedings have not apparently been commenced inAmerica--and nothing definite can be settled. I do not understand itquite. I always thought that out there the woman could always getmatters manipulated for her, and get rid of the man when she wanted. They are so very chivalrous to women, American men, whatever may betheir other sins. This one must be an absolute swine. "

"Yes--does Mrs. Howard feel it very much?" and Michael's deep voicevibrated strangely. 

"She spoke of it just now. Her lawyer arrives from New York to-day toconsult with her what is best next to be done. "

"And she never told you a thing about the fellow, Henry? How verystrange of her, isn't it?"

Lord Fordyce's fine, gray eyes gleamed. 

"Ah--Michael, if you had ever loved a woman, you would know that whenyou really do, you desire to trust her to the uttermost. Sabine wouldtell me and offered to at once if I wished, but--it all upsets her so--Iagree with her--it is much happier for both of us not to talk about it. Only if there seems to be some hitch I will get her to tell me, so thatI may be able to help her. I have a fairly clear judgment generally--andmay see some points she and Mr. Parsons have neglected. "

Michael gazed into the fire--at this moment his worst enemy might havepitied him. 

"Supposing anything were to go really wrong, Henry, it would cut you upawfully, eh?"

And if Lord Fordyce had not been so preoccupied with his own emotions, he would have seen an over-anxiety on the face of his friend. 

"I believe it would just end my life, Michael, " he answered, very low. "I am not a boy, you know, to get over it and begin again. "

Mr. Arranstoun bounded from his chair. 

"Nothing must be allowed to go wrong, then, old man, " he exclaimedalmost fiercely. "Don't you fret. But, by Jove, we will be late fordinner!" and afraid to trust himself to say another word, he turned toone of the groups near and at last got from the room. He did not go upto his own, but on into the front hall, and so out into the night. Abrisk wind was blowing, and the moon, a young, frosty moon was bright. He knew the place well, and paced a stone terrace undisturbed. It was onthe other side all was noise and bustle, where the large, built outball-room stood. 

An absolute decision must be come to. No more shilly-shallying--he hadthrown the dice and lost and must pay the stakes. He would ask her todance this night and then get speech with her alone--discuss what wouldbe best to do to save Henry, and then on the morrow go and beginproceedings immediately. 

Meanwhile, up in Moravia's room, Sabine was seated upon the whitesheep's-skin rug before the fire; she was wildly excited and extremelyunhappy. 

The sight of Michael again had upset all her fancied indifference, andshaken her poise; and apart from this, the situation was grotesque andunseemly. She could no longer suffer it: she would tell Henry the wholetruth to-morrow and ask him what she must do. His love almost terrifiedher. What awful responsibility lay in her hand? But civilizationcommanded her to dress in her best, and go down and dance gaily and playher part in the world. 

"Oh! what slaves we are, Morri!" she exclaimed, as though speaking herthoughts aloud, for the remark had nothing to do with what the Princesshad said. 

Moravia, who was lying on the sofa not in the best of moods either, answered gloomily:

"Yes, slaves--or savages. The truth is, we are nearly all animals moreor less. Some are caught by wiles, and some are trapped, and some revelin being captured--and a few--a few are like me--they get away as a birdwith a shot in its wing. "

Sabine was startled--what was agitating her friend?

"But your troubles are over, Morri, darling--your wings are strong andfree!"

"I said there was a shot in one of them. "

Sabine came and sat upon a stool beside her, and took and caressed herhand. 

"Something has hurt you, dearest, " she cooed, rubbing Moravia's arm withher velvet cheek. "What is it?"

"No, I am not hurt--I am only cynical. I despise our sex--most of us arejust primitive savages underneath at one time of our lives oranother--we adore the strong man who captures us in spite of all ourstruggles!"

"Morri!"

"It is perfectly true! we all pass through it. In the beginning, whenGirolamo devoured me with kisses and raged with jealousy, and one dayalmost beat me, I absolutely worshipped him; it was when he becamepolite--and then yawned that my misery began. You will go through it, Sabine, if you have not already done so. It seems we suffer all thetime, because when that is over then we learn to appreciate gentlenessand chivalry--and probably by then it is out of our reach. "

"I don't believe anything is out of our reach if we want it enough, " andSabine closed her firm mouth. 

"Then I wonder what you want, Sabine--because I know you do not reallywant Lord Fordyce--he represents chivalry--and I don't believe you areat that stage yet, dearest. "

"What stage am I at, then, Morri?"

"The one when you want a master--you have mastered everything yourselfup to now--but the moment will come to you--and then you will befortunate, perhaps, if fate keeps the man away!"

Sabine's violet eyes grew black as night--and her little nostrilsquivered. 

"I know nothing of passions, Moravia, " she cried, and threw out herarms. "I have only dreamed of them--imagined them. I am afraid ofthem--afraid to feel too much. Henry will be a haven of rest--themoment--can never come to me. "

The Princess laughed a little bitterly. 

"Then let us dress, darling, and go down and outshine all these dear, dowdy Englishwomen; and while you are sipping courtesy and gentlenesswith Lord Fordyce, I shall try to quaff gloriously attractive, aboriginal force with Mr. Arranstoun--but it would have been moresuitable to our characters could we have changed partners. Now, runalong!"

CHAPTER XVI

Rose Forster had felt she must not lure Mr. Arranstoun over to Ebbsworthon false pretences; he was a very much sought after young man, and sincehis return from the wilds had been very difficult to secure, andtherefore it was her duty to give him one of her beautiful Americans atdinner. The Princess was obviously the destiny of her husband with herbrother Henry upon the other side, so Michael must take in Mrs. Howard. Mr. Arranstoun was one of the last two guests to assemble in the greatdrawing-room where the party were collected, and did not hear of hisgood fortune until one minute before dinner was announced. 

Sabine had perhaps never looked so well in her life. She had not herfather's nation's love of splendid jewels, and wore none of any kind. Her French mother may have transmitted to her some wonderful strain oftastes which from earliest youth had seemed to guide her into selectingthe most beautiful and becoming things without great knowledge. Her uglyfrocks at the Convent had been a penance, and ever since she had beenfree and rich her clothes and all her belongings had been marvels ofdistinction and simplicity. 

Moravia was, strictly speaking, far more beautiful, but Sabine, as Henryhad once said, had "it. "

Her manner was just what it ought to have been, as she placed her handupon her husband's arm--perfectly indifferent and gracious, and so theywent in to dinner. 

Michael had hardly hoped to have this chance and meant to make the mostof it. At dinner before a ball was not the place to have a seriousdiscussion about divorce, but was for lighter and more frivolousconversation, and he felt his partner would be no unskilled adversarywith the foils. 

"So you have got this far north, Mrs. Howard, " he began by saying, making a slight pause over the name. "I wish I could persuade you tocome over the border to Arranstoun; it is only thirty-five miles fromhere, and really merits your attention. "

"I have heard it is a most interesting place, " Sabine returned, suddenlyexperiencing the same wild delight in the game as she had done in thegarden at Héronac. "Have you ghosts there? We do not have such things inFrance. "

"Yes, there are a number of ghosts--but the most persistent anddisconcerting one is a very young girl who nightly falls through asecret door into my room. "

"How romantic! What is she like?" Two violet eyes looked up at him fullof that mischief which lies in the orbs of a kitten when it contemplatessome fearsome crime, and has to appear especially innocent. 

Michael thrilled. If she had that expression he was quite ready tofollow the lead. 

"She is perfectly enchanting--shall I tell you exactly what shewears--and her every feature and the color of her eyes? The wraith somaterializes that I can describe it as accurately as I could describeyou sitting next me. "

"Please do. "

"She is about five foot seven tall--I mean she has grown as tall asthat--when she first appeared she could not have been taller than fivefoot five. "

"How strange!"

"Yes, isn't it--well, she has the most divine figure, quite slight andyet not scraggy--you know the kind, I loathe them scraggy!"

"I hate fat people. "

"But she isn't fat. I tell you she is too sweet. She has a round babyface with the loveliest violet eyes in the world and such a skin!--likea velvet rose petal!" His unabashed regard penetrated Sabine who smiledslyly. 

"You don't mean to say you can see all these material things in aghost!" she cried with an enchanting air of incredulity. 

"Perfectly--I have not half finished yet. I have not told you about hermouth--it is very curved and full and awfully red--and there is the mostadorable dimple up at one side of it, I am sure the people in the ghostworld that she meets must awfully want to kiss it. "

Sabine frowned. This was rather too intimate a description, butbashfulness or diffidence she knew were not among Mr. Arranstoun'squalities--or defects. 

"I think I am tired of hearing what this ghost looks like, I want toknow what does she do? Aren't you petrified with fright?"

"Not in the least, " Michael told her, "but you will just have to hearabout her hair--when it comes down it is like lovely bronze waves--andher little feet, too--they are exquisite enough in shoes and stockings, but without----!"

Here he had the grace to look at his fish which was just being handed. 

A flush as pink as the pinkest rose came into Sabine's cheeks--he wasperfectly disgraceful and this was of course in shocking taste--but whenhe glanced up again his attractive blue eyes had her late look of aninnocent kitten's in them and he said in an angelic tone:

"She has not a fault, you may believe me, and she jumps up after thefall into the room, and sits in one of my big chairs!"

"Does she scold you for your sins as denizens of another sphere ought todo?" Mrs. Howard was constrained to ask. 

"No--she is a little angel and always tells me that sins are forgiven. "

"Does she come often?"

"Every single evening when I am alone--and--sometimes, she melts into myarms and stays with me all night. Binko--Ah!--you remember Binko!"--forSabine's face had suddenly lit up--and at this passionate joy andemotion flooded Michael's and they both stopped dead short in their talkand Sabine took a quick breath that was almost a gasp. 

"I remember--nothing, " she said very fast, "how should I? The girl whoseghost you are speaking of ceased to exist five years ago--butI--recognize the portrait--I knew her in life--and she told me about thedog--he had fat paws and quantities of wrinkles, I think she said. "

"Yes, that is Binko!" and his master beamed rapturously. "He is the mostbeautifully ugly bulldog in the world, but the poor old boy is gettingon, he is seven years old now. Would not you like to see him--again--Imean from what you have heard!"

"I love animals, especially dogs--but tell me, is he not afraid of theghost?"

Michael drank some champagne, even under all his unhappiness he wasgreatly enjoying himself. "Not at all, he loves her to come as much as Ido. She haunts--both my rooms--and the chapel, too--she wears a whitedress and has some stephanotis in her hair--and I am somehow compelledto enact a whole scene with her--there before the altar with all thecandles blazing--and it seems as if I put a ring upon her hand--like theone you are wearing there--she has lovely hands. "

The color began to die out of Sabine's cheeks and a strange look grew inher eyes. The footmen were removing the fish plates, but she wasoblivious of that. Then the tones of Michael's voice changed and grewdeeper. 

"Soon all the vision fades into gloom, and the only thing I can see isthat she is tearing my ring off and throwing it away into the darkness. "

"And do you try to prevent her from doing this?" Sabine hardly spokeabove a whisper, while she absently refused an entrée which was beinghanded. To talk of ghosts and such like things had been easy enough, butshe had not bargained for him turning the conversation into one ofserious meaning. She could not, however, prevent herself from continuingit, she had never been so interested in her life. 

"No--I cannot do that--there is an archangel standing between. "

At this moment Mrs. Howard's other neighbor claimed her attention; hewas a man to whom she had been talking at tea, and who was alreadyfilled with admiration for her. 

Michael had time for breathing space, and to consider whether thecourse he was pursuing was wisdom or not. That it was madly exciting, heknew--but where was it leading to? What did she mean? Did she feel atall? or was she one of the clever coquettes of her nation, a morerefined Daisy Van der Horn--just going to lead him on into showing hisemotion for her, and then going to punish and humiliate him? He must puta firmer guard over himself, for propinquity and the night were excitinginfluence, and the cruel fact remained that it was too late in any case. Henry's words this afternoon had cast the die forever;he--Michael--could not for any personal happiness be so hideously cruelto his old friend. Better put a bullet through his own brain than that. Whatever should develop on this night, and he meant to continue theconversation as it should seem best to him, and if she fenced toodaringly with him to take the button off the foils--but whatever shouldcome of it it should not be allowed to alter his intention of to-morrowinstructing his lawyers in Edinburgh to begin divorce proceedings atonce. He was like a gambler who has lost his last stake, and who stillmeans to take what joy of life he can before the black to-morrow dawns. So, in the ten minutes or so while Sabine had turned from him, he laidhis plans. He would see how much he could make her feel. He would dancewith her later and then say a final farewell. If she were hurt, too, hemust not care--she had made the barrier of her own free will. Theperson who was blameless and should not suffer was Henry. Then he beganto look at Sabine furtively, and caught the outline of her sweet, averted head. How irresistibly attractive she was! The exact type headmired; not too intellectual-looking, just soft and round and babyish;there was one little curl on her snowy _nuque_ that he longed to kissthere and then. What a time she was talking to the other man! He wouldnot bear it!

And Sabine, while she apparently listened to her neighbor, had not theremotest idea of what he said. The whole of her being was thrilling withsome strange and powerful emotion, which almost made her feel faint--shecould not have swallowed a morsel of food, and simply played with herfork. 

At the first possible pause, Michael addressed her again:

"Since you knew the lady in life who is now my ghost--and she told youof Binko--did she not say anything else about her visit to Arranstoun orits master?"

"Nothing--it was all apparently a blank horror, and she probably wantedto forget it and him. "

"He made some kind of an impression upon her, then--good or bad, sinceshe wanted to forget him--" eagerly. 

Sabine admitted to herself that the umpires might have called "_touché_"for this. 

"It would seem so, " she allowed, with what she thought was generosity. 

"That is better than only creating indifference. "

"Yes--the indifference came later. "

"One expected that; but there was a time, you have inferred, when shefelt something. What was it? Can't you tell me?"

Excitement was rising high now in both of them, and the grouse on theirplates remained almost untasted. 

"At first, she did not know herself, I think; but afterwards, when shecame to understand things, she felt resentment and hate, and it taughther to appreciate chivalry and gentleness. "

Michael almost cried "_touché_!" aloud. 

"He was an awful brute--the owner of Arranstoun, I suppose?"

"Yes--apparently--and one who broke a contract and rather glorified inthe fact. "

Michael laughed a little bitterly, as he answered:

"All men are brutes when the moment favors them, and when a woman issufficiently attractive. We will admit that the owner of Arranstoun wasa brute. "

"He was a man who, I understand, lived only for himself and for hispersonal gratification, " Mrs. Howard told him. 

"Poor devil! He perhaps had not had much chance. You should becharitable!"

Sabine shrugged her shoulders in that engaging way she had. She hadhardly looked up again at Michael since the beginning, the exigencies ofthe dinner-table being excuse enough for not turning her head; but hiseyes often devoured her fascinating, irregular profile to try anddiscover her real meaning, but without success. 

"He was probably one of those people who are more or less like animals, and just live because they are alive, " Sabine went on. "Who are educatedbecause they happen to have been born in the upper classes--Who drinkand eat and sport and game because it gives their senses pleasure so todo--but who see no further good in things. "

"A low wretch!"

"Yes--more or less. "

Michael's eyes were flashing now--and she did peep at him, when he said:

"But if the original of the ghost had stayed with him, she might havebeen able to change this base view of life--she could have elevatedhim. "

Sabine shook her head. 

"No, she was too young and too inexperienced, and he had broken all herideals, absolutely stunned and annihilated her whole vista of thefuture. There was no other way but flight. She had to reconstruct hersoul alone. "

"You do not ask me what became of the owner of Arranstoun--or what hedid with his life. "

"I know he went to China--but the matter does not interest me. There heprobably continued to live and to kill other things--to seize what hewanted and get some physical joy out of existence as usual. "

A look of pain now quenched the fire. 

"You are very cruel, " he said. 

"The owner of Arranstoun was very cruel. "

"He knows it and is deeply repentant; but he was and is only a veryordinary man. "

"No, a savage. "

"A savage then, if you will--and one dangerous to provoke too far;" thefire blazed again. "And what do you suppose your friend learned in thosefive years of men--after she had ceased to exist as the owner ofArranstoun knew her?"

Sabine laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. 

"Of men! That they are like children, desiring only the toys that areout of reach, wasting their souls upon what they cannot obtain andvaluing not at all the gifts of the gods which are in their ownpossession. "

"What a cynical view!"

"Is it not a true one?"

"Perhaps--in some cases--in mine certainly; only I have generallymanaged to obtain what I wanted. "

"Then it may be a new experience for you to find there was one thingwhich was out of your reach. "

He bent forward eagerly and asked, with a catch in his breath:

"And that was----?"

"The soul of a woman--shall we say--that something which no brute forcecan touch. "

The fencing bout was over, the foils were laid aside, and grim earnestwas in Michael's voice now--modulated by civilization into that tonewhich does not carry beyond one's neighbor at a dinner party. 

"Your soul--Sabine--that is the only thing which interests me, and I wasnever able to touch your soul? That is not true, as you know--How dareyou say it to me. There was one moment----"

"Hush, " she whispered, growing very white. "You must not--you shall notspeak to me so. You had no right to come here. No right to talk to me atall--it is traitorous--we are both traitors to Lord Fordyce, who is anoble gentleman above suspecting us of such wiles. "

And at that moment, through a gap in the flowers of the long table, theyboth saw Henry's gray eyes fixed upon them with a rather questioningsurprise--and then Mrs. Forster gave the signal to the ladies, andSabine with the others swept from the room, leaving Michael quiveringwith pain and emotion. 

As for Sabine, she was trembling from head to foot. 

During dinner, Moravia had had an interesting conversation with Henry. They had spoken of all sorts of things and eventually, toward the end ofit, of Sabine. 

"She is the strangest character, Lord Fordyce, " Moravia said. "She ismore like a boy than a girl in some ways. She absolutely rules everyone. When we were children, she and all the others used to call me the motherin our games, but it was really Sabine who settled everything. She wasalways the brigand captain. She got us into all the mischief ofclandestine feasts and other rule breaking--and all the Sisters simplyadored her, and the Mother Superior, too, and they used to let her off, no matter what she did, with not half our punishments. She was thewildest madcap you ever saw. "

Henry was, of course, deeply interested. 

"She is sufficiently grave and dignified now!" he responded inadmiration, his worshiping eyes turned in Sabine's direction; but it wasonly when she moved in a certain way that he could see her, through theflowers. Michael he saw plainly all the time, and perceived that he wasnot boring himself. 

"Her character, then, would seem to have been rather like my friend's, Michael Arranstoun's, " he remarked. "They have both such an astonishing, penetrating vitality, one would almost know when either of them was inthe room even if one could not see them. "

"He is awfully good-looking and attractive, your friend, " Moraviareturned. "I have never seen such bold, devil-may-care blue eyes. Isuppose women adore him; I personally have got over my interest in thatsort of man. I much prefer courteous and more diffident creatures. "

Lord Fordyce smiled. 

"Yes, I believe women spoil Michael terribly, and he is perfectlyruthless with them, too; but I understand that they like that sort ofthing. "

"Yes--most of them do. It is the simple demonstration of strength whichallures them. You see, man was meant to be strong, " and Moravia laughedsoftly, "wasn't he? He was not designed in the scheme of things to be asoft, silky-voiced creature like Cranley Beaton, for instance--talkinggossip and handing tea-cups; he was just intended to be a fierce, greathunter, rushing round killing his food and capturing his mate; and womenhave remained such primitive unspoiled darlings, they can still bedominated by these lovely qualities--when they have a chance to seethem. But, alas! half the men have become so awfully civilized, theyhaven't a scrap of this delightful, aboriginal force left!"

"I thought you said you personally preferred more diffident creatures, "and Lord Fordyce smiled whimsically. 

"So I do now--I said I had got over my interest in these savages--but, of course, I liked them once, as we all do. It is one of our fatalstages that we have to pass through, like snakes changing their skins;and it makes many of us during the time lay up for ourselves all sortsof regrets. "

Henry sought eagerly through the flowers his beloved's face. Had she, too, passed through this stage--or was it to come? He asked himself thisquestion a little anxiously, and then he remembered the words of PèreAnselme, and an unrest grew in his heart. The Princess saw that someshadow had gathered upon his brow, and guessed, since she knew that histhoughts in general turned that way, that it must be something to dowith Sabine--so she said:

"Sabine and I have come through our happinesses, I trust, since Conventdays--and what we must hope for now is an Indian summer. "

Henry turned rather wistful eyes to her. 

"An Indian summer!" he exclaimed. "A peaceful, beautiful warmth afterthe riotous joy of the real blazing June! Tell me about it?"

Moravia sighed softly. 

"It is the land where the souls who have gone through the fire of painlive in peace and quiet happiness, content to glow a little before thefrosts of age come to quench all passion and pleasure. "

Henry looked down at the grapes on his plate. 

"There is autumn afterwards, " he reasoned, "which is full of richnessand glorious fruit. May we not look forward to that? But yet I know thatwe all deceive ourselves and live in what may be only a fool'sparadise"--and then it was that he caught sight of his adored, as shebent forward after her rebuke to Michael--and with a burst of feelingin his controlled voice, he cried: "But who would forego his fool'sparadise!"--and then he took in the fact that some unusual current ofemotion must have been passing between the two--and his heart gave agreat bound of foreboding. 

For the keenness of his perceptions and his honesty of judgment made himsee that they were strangely suited to one another--his darling and hisfriend--so strong and vital and young. 

CHAPTER XVII

The ball was going splendidly and everyone seemed to be in wild form. Sabine had danced with an excitement in her veins which she could notcontrol. Had there been no music or lights, she might just have feltfrightfully disturbed and unhappy, but as it was she was only consciousof excitement. Lord Fordyce was above showing jealousy, and was contentthat she seemed to be enjoying herself, and did not appear unwilling toreturn to him quite frequently and walk about the room or sit down. 

"You are looking so supremely bewitching, my darling, " he told her. "Ifeel it is selfish of me to keep you away from the gay dances, you areso young and sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself. Have you not dancedwith Michael Arranstoun yet? I saw you were getting on with himsplendidly at dinner--he used to be a great dancer before he went off toforeign parts. "

"No, I have not spoken to him even, " she answered, with whatindifference she could. 

"What was he saying just before you left the dining-room which made youlook so haughty, dearest? He was not impertinent to you, I hope, " andHenry frowned a little at the thought. 

Sabine played with her fan--she was feeling inexpressibly mean. 

"No--not in the least--we were discussing someone we had bothknown--long ago--she is dead now. I may have been a little annoyed atwhat he said. Oh! is that a Scotch reel they are going to begin?"

How glad she was of this diversion! She knew she had been capriciouswith Lord Fordyce once or twice during the evening. She was greatlyperturbed. Oh! Why had she not had the courage to be her usual, honestself, and have told him immediately at Héronac who her husband reallywas. She was in a false position, ashamed of her deceit and surroundedby a net-work of acted lies; and all through everything there was apassionate longing to speak to Michael again, and to be near him oncemore as at dinner. She had been conscious of everything that he did--ofwhom he had danced with--Moravia for several times--and now she knewthat he was not in the ball-room. 

Nothing could exceed Henry's gentleness and goodness to her. He watchedher moods and put up with her caprices; that something unusual haddisturbed her he felt, but what it could be he was unable to guess. 

Sabine was aware that other women were envying her for the attentionshowered upon her by this much sought after man. She tried to assureherself how fortunate she was, and now got Henry to tell her once moreof things about his home. It was in the fairest part of Kent, and theyhad often talked of the wonderful garden they would have in that fertilecountry sheltered from all wind, and she knew that as soon as thedivorce was over, she and Moravia would go and stay there and look overit all, and meet his mother, which meeting had not yet been arranged. For some unknown reason nothing would induce her to go now. 

"I would rather see it for the first time, Henry, when I am engaged toyou. Now I should be an ordinary visitor--can't you understand?"

And he had said that he could. It always thrilled him when she appearedto take an interest in his home. 

They talked now about it--and how he would so love her to choose her ownrooms and have them arranged as she liked. Then he made pictures oftheir life together there, and as he spoke her heart seemed to sink andbecome heavier every moment, until at last she could bear no more. 

It was about two dances before supper, into which she had promised to gowith him. She would get away to her room now and be alone until then. She must pull herself together and act with common sense. 

She told him that she had to settle her hair, which had becomedisarranged, and saying he would wait for her he left her at the foot ofthe smaller staircase, which led in a roundabout way to her andMoravia's rooms. She had not wanted to pass through the great hallwhere quantities of people were sitting out. She was just crossing thecorridor where the bachelors were lodged, when she almost ran into thearms of Michael Arranstoun. 

He stopped short and apologized--and then he said:

"I was coming to find you--there is something I must say to you. Mrs. Forster's sitting-room is close here--will you come with me in there fora moment; we can be alone. "

Sabine hesitated. She looked up at him, so tall and masterful andastonishingly handsome--and then she obeyed him meekly, and he led theway into a cosy little room unlit except for a glowing mass of coals. 

Michael turned on one electric lamp, and they both went over to thechimney piece. 

Intense excitement and emotion filled them, but while he tried to searchher face with his passionate eyes, she looked into the fire with loweredhead. 

Then he spoke almost fiercely:

"I cannot try to guess what caused you to pretend you did not recognizeme when we met at Héronac. That first false step has created all thishopeless tangle. I will not judge you, but only blame my own weakness infalling in with your plan. " He clasped his hands together rather wildly. "I was so stunned with surprise to see you, and overcome with theknowledge that I had just given Henry my word of honor that I would notinterfere with him, or make love to the lady we were going to see--aMrs. Howard, who was married to a ruffian of an American husband shut upin a madhouse or home for inebriates! My God! Lies from the verybeginning, " and he gave a little laugh. "I had forgotten for the momentthat you had said you would call yourself by that name, but I rememberedit afterwards. You had not decided if you would be a widow--do yourecollect?--and you wanted a coronet for your handkerchiefs andnote-paper!"

Sabine quivered under the lash of his scorn. 

"You maddened me that afternoon and at dinner, too, " he went on, "and Imade resolutions and then broke them. But each time I did, I was filledwith 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 andknew I ought to go at once. "

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

"I understand you had admitted to being a dog in the manger--you werealways an animal of sorts!"

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

"You have a perfect right to say that to me if you choose; it isprobably true. I am a very strong man with tremendous passions whichhave 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 wantedanything in my life--I am going to give you up to Henry. I have beenthrough hell--ever since I came from France. I have been weak, too, andcould not face the final wrench--but I am determined at last to do whatis straight, and to-morrow I will instruct my lawyers to beginproceedings, 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 hefeared that he might be tempted to touch her. 

"I came--because I wanted to see you so that I could not stay away--Icame because I wished to convince myself again that you loved Henry, sothat 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 thinkthat you do--and so at dinner I played for my own pleasure, the diebeing cast, for something else had occurred before dinner which makes itof 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 partfrom you he says would end his life. I could not commit the frightfulcruelty and dishonor of upsetting his plans, since you are originally toblame for concealing the truth from him, and I am to blame for abettingyou. He trusts us both as you said. "

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

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

"My God!" he said, with a fresh clenching of his strong hands, "I wouldnot have believed I could have suffered so. As it is the last time weshall ever talk to one another perhaps--I want you to know aboutthings--to hear it all. I would like to ask you again to forgive me forlong ago, but I suppose you feel that is past forgiveness?" His face hada look of pleading; then he went on as she did not respond. "If you hadnot 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 contentedat least in my arms. But I would have caressed you into completeforgetfulness in time--" here his voice vibrated with a deep note oftenderness, which thrilled her--but yet she could not speak. 

"And what had begun just in mad passion would have grown into real lovebetween us--for we were made for one another Sabine--did you neverthink of that?--just the same sort of natures--vigorous and all aliveand passionate, with the same joy of life in our blood. We would havebeen supremely happy. But I was so frightfully arrogant in those days, and when I spoke I was deadly ashamed of myself, and then furious withyou for daring to defy me and going after all. No one had ever disobeyedme. But it was shame really which made me agree to join LatimerBerkeley's expedition at once--the letter came by the early post. Iwanted to get right away and try to forget what I had done--and sinceyou had expressed your will, I just left you to stand by it. " He leanedupon the mantelpiece now and buried his face in his hands. 

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

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

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

Then he controlled himself; he must go at once or he could no longeranswer for what he might do. She looked so sweet and sorrowful standingclose to his side, her violet eyes lowered so that their long lashesmade 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 fromhis tortured heart. "There is something about you which tells me thatyou do not love Henry--that he has never made you feel--as I once madeyou feel, and could make you feel again. " He stretched out his arms inpain. "The temptation is frightful--terrible--just to kiss you oncemore--Darling--Oh! I cannot bear it. I must go!" and he took a step awayfrom her. 

But _the Moment_ for Sabine had come; she could resist its force nomore, every nerve in her whole body was quivering--every unknown, thoughhalf-guessed emotion was stirring her soul. Her whole being seemed to beconvulsed in one concentrated desire. The reality had materialized theechoes she had often dimly felt from that night of long ago. 

The wild passion which she had feared, and only that very evening hadrepudiated as being an impossible experience for her, had now overtakenher, 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 thepent-up feelings in both their souls let loose at last. 

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

"My darling, my darling!" he murmured, kissing her hair and brow andeyelids. "Oh! the hideous cruelty that it is all too late and this mustbe 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, tremblingwith love and misery. 

"Darling, " at last he besought her, while he unclasped her tender handsfrom 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 anuncontrollable brute, but you shall not be able to do so any more. Iwould never respect myself--or you--again if I let you make me faithlessto Henry now. It is cruel sorrow, but we cannot think of ourselves; youknow, we used too lightly for our own ends what should have been anawfully sacred tie. Do you remember, Sabine, we swore to God to love andbe faithful forever--not meaning a word we said--and now we arepunished--" A great sob shook his deep voice. 

"Darling child--I love you madly, madly, Sabine--dear little one--butyou 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 thathis whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness. Darling--" and he paused and drew her to him again fondly. "It is ourown fault. We have let the situation develop through indecision and, Iexpect, wounded vanity and weakness--and now we must have strength toabide by our words. Henry isn't young like we are, you see. I honestlybelieve it would knock him right out if anything went wrong. "

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

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

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

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

"Sweetheart, " he went on, "we have got to part in a moment, but I justmust 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 thismoment of agonized parting exulting in the intoxication of love he sawthat he had created in her eyes. There was no wile for the enslaving ofa woman's heart that he was not master of. The question as to whether heought to have employed them on this occasion is quite another matter, and not for our consideration! He was doing what he thought was the onlyhonorable thing possible, giving up this glorious happiness, and he wasmerely a strong, passionate human being after all. They were going topart for the rest of their lives; he must make her tell him that sheloved 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 withemotion. 

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

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

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

She sat there for a while gazing into the fire, too stunned with miseryeven to think; but presently everything came to her with mercilessclearness. How small she had been all along! Instead of waiting untilshe heard the truth, she had let a wretched paragraph in a newspaperinflame her wounded vanity, so that she gave her promise to Henry thereand then--putting the rope round her neck with her own hands. Andafterwards, instead of being brave and true, wounded vanity again hadcaused her to tighten the knot. She remembered Henry's words when hehad implored her to tell him what were the actual wishes of herheart--and how she had cut off all retreat by her answer. She rememberedall his goodness to her and how she had accepted it as her due, makinghim care for her more and more as each day came. 

"I have been a hopeless coward, " she moaned, "a paltry, vain, hopelesscoward. I should have owned Michael was my husband immediately. Henrycould have got over it then, and now we might be happy--but it is toolate; 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. IfMichael could bear this agony and behave like a gentleman, she also mustplay her part with dignity. Henry would be waiting at the bottom of thestairs. 

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

"I was growing quite anxious, dearest, " Lord Fordyce told her, as headvanced to meet her when she came down the stairs. "I feared you wereill, and was just coming to find you. Let us go straight in to suppernow--you look rather pale. I must take care of you and give you somechampagne, " and he placed her hand in his arm fondly and led her along. 

[Illustration: "'He is often in some scrape--something must haveculminated to-night'"]

They found chairs which had been kept for them at a centre table, neartheir hostess and Moravia, and here they sat down. Michael was nowherein 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 atSabine's side. His eyes had a reckless, stony stare in them, and heconfined his conversation to the lady he had taken in. And Henry, whowas watching him, whispered to Sabine:

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

Sabine drank down her glass of champagne; she thought she could nolonger support the situation. She almost felt she hated Henry and hisdevotion, --it was paralyzing her, suffocating her--crushing her life. Michael never spoke to her--beyond a casual word--and at length they allwent 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 themas their eyes met, and he held out his arm. 

"This is my dance, I think, Mrs. Howard, " he said with carelesssangfroid, and he whirled her away into the middle of the room. Theyboth were perfect dancers and never stopped in their wild career untilthe music ended. It was a two-step, and all the young people clappedfor the band to go on. So once more they started with the throng. Theyhad not spoken a single word; it was a strange comfort to them just tobe 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. Ihave ordered my motor, and I am going home to-night--I cannot bear itanother single minute. If I stayed until to-morrow I should break myword. I love you to absolute distraction--Good-bye, " and without waitingfor her to answer he left her close to Henry and turning was lost in thecrowd. 

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 onlyLord Fordyce caught her arm, while he cried, in solicitousconsternation:

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

But Sabine pulled herself together and assured him she was allright--she had been giddy for a moment--he need not distress himself;and as they walked into the conservatory she protested vehemently thatshe 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 theNovember sky, darkening toward late afternoon, as its master camethrough the postern gate and across the lawn to his private rooms. Hehad been tramping the moorland beyond the park without Binko or a gun, his thoughts too tempestuous to bear with even them. For the letter toMessrs. McDonald and Malden had gone, and the first act of the tragedyof his freedom had been begun. 

It was a colossal price to pay for honor and friendship, but while theyhad been brigands and robbers for hundreds of years, the Arranstouns hadnot been dishonorable men, and had once or twice in their history done agreat and generous thing. 

Michael was not of the character which lauded itself, indeed he wasnever introspective nor thought of himself at all. He was just strongand living and breathing, his actions governed by an inherited sense ofthe fitness of things for a gentleman's code, which, unless it wasswamped, as on one occasion it had been by violent passion, very seldomled him wrong. 

Now he determined never to look ahead or picture the blankness of hisdays as they must become with no hope of ever seeing Sabine. He supposedvaguely that the pain would grow less in time. He should have to play alot of games, and take tremendous interest in his tenants and hisproperty and perhaps presently go into Parliament. And if all thatfailed, he could make some expedition into the wilds again. He was toohealthy and well-balanced to have even in this moment of deep sufferingany morbid ideas. 

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

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

And then he thought suddenly of Henry's home--the stately Elizabethanhouse amidst luxuriant, peaceful scenery--not grim and strong likeArranstoun--though she preferred gaunt castles, evidently, since shehad bought Héronac for her own. But the thought of Henry's home and heradorning it brought too intimate pictures to his imagination; theygalled 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 tocontemplate 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'sarms. This was unbearable--and before he was aware of it he found he wasclenching his fists in rage, and that Binko was sitting on his haunches, blinking at him, with his head on one side in his endeavors tounderstand. 

Michael pulled himself together and laughed bitterly aloud. 

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

Then he sat down again. With what poignant regret he looked back uponhis 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 thisroom--they would have had five years of happiness. She was sweeter nowfar than she had been then, and he could have watched her developing, instead of her coming to perfection all alone. That under thesecircumstances she might never have acquired that polish of mind, andstrange dignity and reserve of manner which was one of her greatestattractions, did not strike him--as it has been plainly said, he was notgiven to analysis in his judgment of things. 

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

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

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

Then his thoughts wandered back to their scene in Rose Forster'ssitting-room--that was pleasure indeed! And he leaned back in his bigchair and let himself dream. He could hear her words telling him thatshe loved him and could feel her soft lips pressed in passion to hisown. 

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

 * * * * *

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

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

Sabine, for her part, found the days not worth living. Nothing in lifeor nature stays at a standstill; if stagnation sets in, then deathcomes--and so it was that her emotions for Michael did not remain thesame, but grew and augmented more and more as the certainty that theywere parted for ever forced itself upon her brain. 

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

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

But Mr. Parsons could hold out no really encouraging hopes of this. Nodetails would probably be known, but that Michael Arranstoun had marrieda Sabine Delburg and now divorced her would certainly be announced inthe Scotch journals, where the Arranstouns and their Castle were of suchinterest to the public. 

"If only I had been called Mary Smith!" Sabine almost moaned. "If LordFordyce sees this he must realize that, although he knows me as SabineHoward, 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 necessarywould she do this thing. 

Henry's company now had no longer power to soothe her; she found herselfcrushing down sudden inclinations to be capricious to him or evenunkind--and then she would feel full of remorse and regret when she sawthe pain in his fond eyes. She was thankful that they were returning toParis, and then she meant to go straight to Héronac, telling him he mustsee her no more until she was free. It was the month of the greateststorms there; it would suit her exactly and it was her very own. Sheneed not act for only Madame Imogen and Père Anselme. But when shethought of this latter a sensation of discomfort came. How could sheread in peace with the dear old man, who was so keen and so subtle hewould certainly divine that all was not well? And ever his sentencerecurred 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 takethe helm in the direction of our own affairs, it may be that He will letcircumstance draw us into rough waters. " And then, that as she had takenthe helm she must abide by her word. Bitterness and regret were herportion--in a far greater degree than after that other crisis of herlife, when its realities had come to her, and she knew she must bearthem alone. She had been too young then to understand half thepossibilities of mental pain, and also there was no finality aboutanything--all might develop into sunshine again. Now she had the mostcruel torture of all, the knowledge that she herself by her wilfulnessand 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 twoyoung people in their separate homes. In the old days when she used totry and banish the too lenient thoughts of Michael, she had always thepicture of his selfishness and violent passion to call up to heraid--but that was blotted out now, and in its place there was the memorythat it was he, not she, who had behaved nobly and decided to sacrificeall happiness to be true to his friend. Sometimes when she first gotback to Héronac she, too, allowed herself to dream of their good-bye, and the cruel sweetness of that brief moment of bliss, and she would gothrough strange thrills and quivers and stretch out her arms in thefirelight and whisper his name aloud--"Michael--my dear love!"

She could not even bear the watching, affectionate eyes of Madame Imogenand sent her to Paris on a month's holiday. The Père Anselme had beenaway 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 wouldhave to answer them!--and as his grew more tender and loving, so hersunconsciously became more cold, with a note of bitterness in themsometimes of which she was unaware. 

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

Now love was playing his sad pranks with all of them, and the PrincessTorniloni was receiving her share. The constant companionship of Henryhad not made her feelings more calm. She was really in love with himwith all that was best and greatest in her sweet nature, and it waschanging her every idea. She was even getting a little vicarioushappiness out of being a sympathetic friend, and as he grew sad andrestless, so she became more gentle and tender, and watched over himlike a fond mother with a child. She would not look ahead or face thefact that he had grown too dear; she was living her Indian summer, shetold 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 afterSabine had left them. "I never have known so kind a woman. You seem tothink of gentle and sympathetic things to say before one even asks foryour sympathy. How greatly I misjudged your nation before I knew you andSabine!"

"No, I don't think you did misjudge us in general, " she replied. "Lotsof us are horrid when we are on the make, and those are the sorts yougenerally meet in England. We would not go there, you see, if it was notto get something. We can have everything material as good, if notbetter, in our own country, only we can't get your repose, or youratmosphere, and we are growing so much cleverer and richer every yearthat we hate to think there is something we can't buy, and so we comeover 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 prettyyoung baby's head she thinks out evolution, and cause and effect, andheredity, and every sort of deep tiresome thing!"

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

"Yes. "

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

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

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

"We had no discussions of any kind. She was particularly sweet, andspent nearly the whole evening with me, as you know. Is it somethingabout her husband, do you think, which is troubling her? But it cannotbe that, because in her letter of two days ago she said the proceedingshad been started and she would be free perhaps by Christmastime, as allwas being hurried through. "

Moravia gave an exclamation of surprise. 

"Sabine is certainly very strange. Can you believe it? She has nevermentioned the matter to me since we returned, and once when I spoke ofit, she put the subject aside. She did not 'wish to remember it, ' shesaid. "

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

"But she never saw him from the day after she was married!" Moraviaexclaimed; and then pulled herself up short, glancing at Henryfurtively. What had Sabine told him? Probably no more than she had toldher--she felt the subject was dangerous ground, and it would be wiser toavoid 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 islooking forward awfully to our all going to her for Christmas. Then youwill be able to clear away all your clouds. "

But this conversation left Henry very troubled, and Père Anselme's wordsabout the cinders still being red kept recurring to him with increasingpain. 

Sabine had been at Héronac for ten days when the old priest got back tohis flock. It was toward the end of November, and the weather was oneraging storm of rain and wind. The surf boiled round the base of theCastle and the waves rose as giant foes ready to attack. It comfortedthe mistress of it to stand upon the causeway bridge and get soakingwet--or to sit in one of the mullioned windows of her great sitting-roomand watch the angry water thundering beneath. And here the Père Anselmefound her on the morning after his return. 

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

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

"She is well, my sister--a martyr in life, she has paid her debt. I haveno grief. "

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

Then there was a pause--not one of those calm, happy pauses of otherdays, when each one dreamed, but a pause wrought with unease. The Curé'sold 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 theday and, as once before, she burst into a passion of tears. 

The Père Anselme did not seek to comfort her; he knew women well--shewould be calmer presently, and would tell him what her sorrow was. Heonly murmured some words in Latin and looked out on the sea. 

Presently the sobs ceased and the Dame d'Héronac rose quickly and leftthe 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 beenvery foolish and very wicked--but I cannot talk about it. Let us beginto read. "

CHAPTER XIX

Meanwhile the divorce affair went on apace. There was no defence, ofcourse, and Michael's lawyers were clever and his own influence wasgreat. So freedom would come before the end of term probably, if notearly in the New Year, and Henry felt he might begin to ask his belovedone to name a date when he could call her his own, and endeavor to takeevery 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 seemedlike 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 fromhim. Besides, the die was cast and she must have the courage to gothrough with it. 

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

Thoughts of Michael she dismissed as well as she could, but she hadpassionate longings to go and take out the blue enamel locket from herdespatch-box and look at it once more; she would not permit herself toindulge in this weakness, though. Her whole days were ruled withsternest discipline until she became quite thin, and the Père Anselmegrew worried about her. 

A fortnight went by; it was growing near to Christmastime--but theatmosphere of Héronac contained no peace, and one bleak afternoon theold priest paced the long walk in the garden with knitted brows. He didnot feel altogether sure as to what was his duty. He was always on theside of leaving things in the hand of the good God, but it might be thathe would be selected to be an instrument of fate, since he seemed theonly detached person with any authority in the affair. 

His Dame d'Héronac had tried hard to be natural and her old self, hecould see that, but her taste in their reading had been over muchdirected to Heine, she having brought French translations of this poet'sworks back with her from Paris. 

Twice also had she asked him to recite to her De Musset's "_La Nuit deDécembre_. " He did not consider these as satisfactory symptoms. Therewas no question in his astute mind as to what was the general cause ofhis beloved lady's unrest. The change in her had begun to take placeever since the fatal visit of the two Englishmen. Herein lay matter forthought. For the very morning before their arrival she had beenparticularly bright and gay, telling him of her intended action inmaking arrangements to free herself from her empty marriage bonds, andapparently contemplating a new life with Lord Fordyce with satisfaction. Père 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 hebegan to put the method of this citizen of Babylon into practice, neverhaving heard of the immortal Sherlock Holmes. 

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

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

He was even more of a gentleman than of a priest, and therefore forboreto question Sabine directly, but that afternoon, with the intention ofdirecting her mind into facing eventualities, he had talked of LordFordyce, and what would be the duties of her future position as hiswife. Sabine replied without enthusiasm in her tones, while her wordsgave a picture of all that any woman's heart could desire:

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

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

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

"Fear of what?"

"Fear of failing to come up to the standard of his ideal of her--fearof breaking his heart. "

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

"And he did, " Sabine's voice was strained. "And I told him that hecould--if he would help me to forget--and I gave him my word and lethim--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 brownhands to the blaze, his eyes averted from her while he spoke. 

"You must look to the end, my daughter, and ask yourself whether or noyou will be strong enough to play your part in the years which arecoming--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 againmake vows. "

And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when heintended 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 backfrom one of the great windows. All was inky darkness, and the roaring ofthe sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like themenacing voices of an angry crowd. 

"The good God can calm even this rough water, " he said. "It would bewell 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'Héronac crouched upon the velvet window-seat, peeringout upon the waves. 

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

The great suffering that he was going through was having some effectupon his mind, refining him in all ways, forcing him to think and toreason out all problems of life. The great dreams which used to come tohim sometimes when in Kashmire during solitary hours of watching forsport returned. He would surely do something vast with his life--whenthis awful pain should be past. What, he could not decide--but somethingwhich would take him out of himself. He did not think he could stay inEngland just at first after Sabine should have married Henry--thechances of running across her would be too great, since they both knewthe same people. 

Henry would read about the divorce and the name "Sabine Delburg" in thepaper, too, and would then know everything, even if Sabine had notalready informed him. But he almost thought she must have done so, because he had had no word lately from his old friend. Thus the timewent on for all of them, and none but the priest felt any premonitionthat Christmas would certainly bring a climax in all of their fates. 

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

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

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

"Yes, it is as good as anywhere, " Michael returned. "I felt I could notstand the whole thing at Arranstoun. I have been away from England solong, I must get used to these old anniversaries again gradually. Hereone is free. "

They looked into each other's faces and Henry noticed that Michael hadnot quite got his old exuberant expression of the vivid joy of life--hewas paler and even a little haggard, if so splendid a creature couldlook that!

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

"I suppose they will be formally engaged in the New Year. I wonder howmy little girl is bearing it--if she is half as miserable as I am, Godcomfort her, " he cried to himself; and then he felt he could not standMiss Daisy Van der Horn, and getting into his motor he told thechauffeur to drive into the Bois instead of to the supper. 

Here among the dark trees he could think. It was all perfectlyimpossible, and no happiness could possibly come to Henry either--unlesshe succeeded in consoling Sabine when she should be his wife. And thiswas perhaps the bitterest thought of all--that she should ever beconsoled as Henry's wife!

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

It was about five o'clock on the next afternoon that the Princess andher party arrived at Héronac. Sabine was waiting for them in the greathall, and greeted them with feverish delight, but Henry's worshippingeyes took in at once the fact that she was greatly changed. She made atremendous fuss over Girolamo, for whom a most sumptuous tea had beenprepared in his own nurseries, and Henry thought how sweet she was withchildren and how divinely happy they would be in the future, when theyhad some of their own!

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

This chance, however, did not seem likely to be vouchsafed to him, foron the plea of having such heaps to talk over with Moravia, Sabineaccompanied that lady to her room and did not appear again until theywere 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 gaietyof the party by her jolly remarks. 

The lady of Héronac had hardly been able to control herself as shewaited for her guests' arrival and felt that to rush at Girolamo wouldbe her only hope. For that morning the post had brought the news thatthe divorce would be granted by the end of January, and she would befree! She had felt very faint as she had read Mr. Parsons' letter. Nomatter how one might be expecting an axe to fall, when it does, theshock must seem immense. 

Sabine lay there and moaned in her bed. Then over her crept a fierceresentment against Henry. Why should she be sacrificed to him? He wasforty years old, and had lived his life; and she was young, and had notyet really begun to enjoy her's. How would she be able to bear it; or toact even complaisance when every fiber of her being was turning in madpassion and desire to Michael, her love?

Then her sense of justice resumed its sway. Henry at least was not toblame--no one was to blame but her own self. And as she had proudlyagreed with Michael that every one must come up to the scratch, she mustfulfil her part. There was no use in being dramatic and deciding upon acertain course as being a noble and disinterested one, and then in nothaving the pluck to carry it through. She had prayed for guidanceindeed, and no light had come, beyond the feeling that she must stickto her word. 

The report of the case would be in the Scotch papers, and MichaelArranstoun being such a person of consequence it would probably be justannounced in the English journals, too, and Henry would see it. Shecould 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 unnervedher. She must tell him with all seeming indifference, and then close thescene as quickly as she could. 

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

"But, " explained the Princess, "I don't call it at all tiresome. Itmeans your freedom, Sabine, and then you will be able to marry Henry. Heabsolutely worships the ground you tread on, and if anything had gonewrong, 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 ableto live up to being the ideal creature he thinks that I am?" and Sabinegave a forced laugh. 

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

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

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

"It depends upon the man, " and the Princess looked thoughtful. "I knownow 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 keephis hunting instinct alive. When a man is a very strong, passionatecreature like that, it is the only way--make him scheme to get you to belovely to him, make him wait, and never be sure if you are going to lethim kiss you or no; and if you adore him really yourself, _hide it_, andlet him feel always that he has to use his wits and all his charms tokeep you. Oh! I could have been so happy if I had known these things intime!"

"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 perfectlyfrank with, and as good and kind and tender as they feel they would liketo be. Lord Fordyce is one of these. You could load him with devotionand love, and he would never take advantage of you; but just to satisfyhim, Sabine, you need only be you, I expect!" and she looked fondly ather 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 tobe really devoted to a man; they can't help being mean, and immediatelythinking the poor thing is of less consequence to please than somecapricious cat they cannot obtain!"

Sabine nodded, and Moravia went on: "But you need not fear! Henry willadore you always--because you really don't care!" and she sighed alittle 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 tolove 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. "Heis 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 spiteof 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 littleson like Girolamo!" and she gave a great sigh as she looked into thefire. 

Sabine stiffened all over, and an expression of horrified repugnance anddismay 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 belate for dinner. 

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

CHAPTER XX

Christmas Eve was particularly frosty and bright. The sun poured throughSabine'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, andknew the dreaded _tête-à-tête_ must come. She did not set herself totell him who her husband was on this particular morning--about that shemust 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-pastten o'clock, his face full of radiance and love. She had alwayssteadfastly refused to take any presents from him, but he had had themost beautiful flowers sent from Paris for her, and they had justarrived. She was taking them out of their box herself. This made apretext for her to express delighted thanks, and for a little she playedher part so well that all Henry's doubts were set at rest, and he toldhimself that he had been imaginative and foolish to think that anythingwas changed in her. 

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

At last, among the giant violets, they came upon one bunch of whiteones. These she took and separated, and, making them into two, she stuckone 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 wholecountenance full of passionate love. 

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

The temptation was too great for Henry. He put his arm round her anddrew 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, andhe was conscious that, as he clasped her close, a repressed shudder ranthrough her whole frame. 

With a little cry of anguish he put her from him, and searched withmiserable eyes for some message in her face. But her lids were loweredand 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. "Onlythat I am very foolish and silly, and I do not believe I likecaresses--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 withme until I learn to--understand. "

Of course he would be patient, he assured her, and asked her to forgivehim if he had been brusque, his refined voice full of adoringcontrition. He caught at any gossamer thread to stifle the obviousthought that if she loved him even ever so little he would not have toaccustom her to caresses; she would long ago have been willing to learnall of their meanings in his arms!--and this was only the second timeduring their acquaintance that she had even let him kiss her!

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

"Henry, " she pleaded, "I am not really as I know you think I am--agentle and loving woman. There are all sorts of fierce sides in mycharacter which you have not an idea of, and I am only beginning toguess at them myself. I do not know that I shall ever be able to makeyou happy. I am sure I shall not unless you will be contented with verylittle. "

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

The anguish and fond worship in his face wrung her heart. She startedfrom him and then, returning, held out her arms, while she cried with apitiful 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 Ifeel--Henry, you said you would make me forget!"

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

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

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

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

At breakfast the Père Anselme watched her intently while he kept hisaloof air. He felt that something extra had disturbed her. He was tostay in the house with them on Christmas night, because it was so coldfor him to return to his home after dinner, and Sabine could notpossibly 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 ballrolling as merrily as he could. But he, no less than Henry, wasconscious that all was not well. 

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

"She is too young to be made to suffer it, " he said, half aloud. "Thegood God cannot ask so much, as a price for wilfulness; and if this manhas grown as distasteful to her as her face seems to suggest, nothingbut misery could come from their dual life. " It was all very cruel tothe Englishman, no doubt, but where was the wisdom of letting two peoplesuffer? Surely it was better to let only one pay the stakes, and if thisthing went on, both would have equal unhappiness, and be tied togetheras two animals in a menagerie cage. 

No gentleman should accept such a sacrifice. If the Lord Fordyce did notrealize for himself that something had changed things, it must be thathe, Gaston d'Héronac, the Père Anselme, must intervene. It might be veryfine and noble to stick to one's word, but it became quixotic if to doso could only bring misery to oneself and one's mate!

The good priest stalked on to his _presbytère_, and then to his church, to see that all should be ready for _réveillon_ that night, and he wasreturning to the château 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 commissionto their little town directly they had all left the dining-room. ThusHenry was alone. 

He greeted the Père Anselme gladly. The old priest's cultivated mind wasto him always a source of delight. 

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

Henry had been growing more and more troubled while he had been out byhimself. He could not disguise the fact that there was some great changein Sabine, and now his anxious mood craved sympathy and counsel fromthis her great friend. 

"Madame Howard does not look quite well, Father, " he remarked, afterthey had pulled some modern philosophies to pieces, and there had been apause. "She is so nervous--what is the cause of it, do you know? Perhapsthis 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 Père Anselme drewcloser his old black cloak. "There are other and stronger causes for thestate in which we find the Dame Sabine. "

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

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

The Curé of Héronac cleared his throat, and then he said gently:

"I spoke once before to you about the cinders and as to whether or nothey were still red. That is what causes her to be restless--she hasfound that they are yet alight. "

Lord Fordyce was a brave man, but he grew very pale. It seemed thatsuddenly all the fears which his heart had sheltered, though would notown as facts, were rising before him like giant skeletons, concrete anddistinct. 

"But the divorce is going well!" he exclaimed a little passionately, hishurt was so great. "She told me so last night; she will be free sometime 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 askit is for you to demand of yourself whether you will accept hersacrifice. "

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

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

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

"We have never spoken upon the matter, " the priest answered him. "Icannot say, but I think--yes, she has certainly come under hisinfluence again. Have you never searched in your mind, Monsieur, to askyourself who this husband could be?"

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

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

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

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

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

Henry staggered to the wall of the summer-house and leant there. Hisface 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 ofpity as he answered:

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

"It is Michael Arranstoun, " Henry said in a voice strangled and alteredwith suffering. "I see every link in the chain--but, O God! why havethey deceived me? What can it mean? What hideous, fiendish cruelty! AndMichael was my old friend. "

A wild rage and resentment convulsed him. He only felt that he wished tokill both these traitors, who had tricked him and destroyed his beliefsand his happiness. Ghastly thoughts that there might be furtherdisclosures of more shameful deceptions to come shook him. He wastrembling 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 factsbefore you assert that. You must not forget that whoever the husband maybe, he has consented to divorce her, and she is now going to giveherself to you. Is that cruelty, my son? Or is it a fine keeping to agiven word? It looks to me more like a noble sacrifice, unless theSeigneur of Arranstoun was aware before he ever came here that MadameHoward 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 heaverred. "He even laughed over the name when I told it to him, and saidhe had a scapegrace cousin out in Arizona and wondered if the husbandcould 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, forhe remembered that his friend had given him his word of honor that hewould not interfere with him in his love-making--and, indeed, would helphim in every way he could, even to lending him Arranstoun for thehoneymoon! That letter of his, too, when he had gone from Héronac, saying in it casually he hoped that he, Henry, thought that he hadplayed the game!--Yes, it was all perfectly plain. Michael had comethere in all innocence, and could not be blamed. He remembered numbersof things unnoticed at the time--his own talk with Sabine when he haddiscussed Michael's marriage--and this brought him up suddenly to herside of the question. Why, in heaven's name, had she not told him thetruth at once? Why had she pretended not to recognize Michael? For, however Michael might have started, since he, Henry, was not looking athim, Sabine, whose face he had been gazing into all the while, had shownno faintest recognition of him. What a superb actress she must be!--orperhaps, having only seen him those two times in her life, for thoseshort moments, she really did not recognize him then. The whole thingwas so staggering in its hideous tragedy his brain almost refused tothink; but he said this last thought aloud, and the priest's strangesudden silence struck even his numbed sense. 

"She had only seen him for such a little while--they parted immediatelyafter the wedding; it was merely an empty ceremony, you know. Why, then, should she have had any haunting memories of him?"

The Père Anselme avoided answering this question by asking another. 

"You knew that the Seigneur of Arranstoun was wedded, it would seem. Howwas that?"

Then Henry told him the outline of Michael's story, and the cruel ironyof fate in having made him himself leave the house before seeing Sabinestruck 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 inany way guess?"

The Père Anselme mused for a moment. 

"I have my own thoughts upon the matter, my son. We who live lonelylives 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 giveyou some counsel, I would tell you to go back to the château now, withno _parti pris_, and seek her immediately, and get her to tell you thewhole truth yourself. Of what good for you and me to speculate, since weneither of us know all the facts?--or even, if our suppositions arecorrect----" Then, as Lord Fordyce hesitated, he continued: "The timehas passed for reticence. There should be no more avoiding of fearedsubjects. Go, go, my son, and discover the entire truth. "

"And what then!" The cry came from Henry's agonized heart. But thepriest answered gravely:

"That is in the hand of God. My duty is done. "

And so they returned in silence, the Père Anselme praying fervently tohimself. And when they reached the house, Lord Fordyce stumbled up thestone 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 thatthis 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-boxat her side. She was at the far end of the great apartment, so thatHenry had some way to go toward her in the gloom, as, but for the largelamp near her and the blazing wood fire at each end, there was no lightin 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 hadhappened, and suddenly put her hand out to steady herself upon the backof a chair. 

"Henry--what is it?" she said, in a very low voice. "Come, let us goover there and sit down, " and she drew him to the same sofa where thatvery morning they had sat when she had let him kiss her. This thoughtwas extra pain. 

He was so very quiet he frightened her, and his gray eyes looked intohers with such a world of despair, but no reproach. 

"Sabine, " he commanded in a voice out of which had vanished all life andhope, "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 dutynow 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 voicetrembled 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 herose. 

"Sabine, " he said with deep emotion, his heart at breaking point, butall thought of himself put aside in the supreme unselfishness of hisworship; "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 myroom for a little; this has been a tremendous shock. "

He bent and kissed her forehead with reverence and blessing, as herfather might have done, and, hiding all further emotion, he walkedsteadily from the room. 

CHAPTER XXI

When Lord Fordyce found himself alone, it felt as if life itself mustleave him, the agony of pain was so great, the fiendish irony ofcircumstances. It almost seemed that each time he had intended to do agood thing, he had been punished. He had left Arranstoun for the bestmotive, and so had not seen Sabine and thus saved himself from futurepain; he had taken Michael to Héronac out of kindly friendship, and thishad robbed him of his happiness. But, awful as the discovery was now, itwas not half so terrible as it would have been if the truth had onlycome to him later, when Sabine had become his wife. He must be thankfulfor that. Things had always been inevitable; it was plain to beunderstood that she had loved Michael all along, and nothing hepersonally could have done with all his devotion could have changed thisfact. He ought to have known that it was hopeless and that he was onlyliving in a fool's paradise. Never once had he seen the light in hereyes for himself which sprang there even at the mention of Michael'sname. What was this tremendous power this man possessed to so deeplyaffect women, to so greatly charm every one? Was it just "it, " as thePrincess had said? Anguish now fell upon Henry; there was no consolationanywhere to be found. 

He went over again all the details of the story he had heard, andhimself filled up the links in the chain. How brutal it was of Michaelto have induced her to stay--even if she remained of her own accord--andthen the frightful thoughtless recklessness of letting her go offafterwards just because he was angry! Wild fury blazed up against hisold friend. The poor darling little girl to be left to suffer all alone!Oh! how tender and passionately devoted he would have been under thesame circumstances. Would Michael ever make her happy or take propercare of her? He paced his room, his mind racked with pain. Every singleturn of events came back to him, and his own incredible blindness. Howhad he been so unseeing? How, to begin with, had he not recalled thename of Sabine as being the one he had read long ago in the paper asthat of the girl whom Michael had gone through the ceremony of marriagewith? It had faded completely from his memory. Everything seemed to havecombined to lead him on to predestined disaster and misery--even inSabine's and Michael's combining to keep the matter secret from him notto cause him pain--all had augmented the suffering now. If--but therewas no good in contemplating ifs--what he had to do was to think clearlyas to what would be the wisest course to secure his darling'shappiness. That must be his first consideration. After that, he mustface his own cruel fate with what courage he could command. 

Her happiness could only come through the divorce proceedings beingstopped at once, and in her being free to go back to the man whom sheloved. Then the aspect that Michael had been willing to do a really finething for the sake of friendship struck him--perhaps he was worthy ofSabine, after all; and they were young and absolutely suited to oneanother. No, the wickedness would have been if he, whose youth hadpassed, had claimed her and come between. He was only now going throughthe same agony his friend must have done, and he had a stronger motiveto help him, in the wish to secure the joy of this adored woman, whereasMichael knew he was condemning her to sorrow as well as himself, and hadbeen strong enough to do it simply from honor and friendship. No, he hadno 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 haveto take some decided course came as a relief. He would go out into thevillage and telegraph to Michael to come to Héronac at once. He was inParis, staying at the Ritz, he knew; he could be there to-morrow--onChristmas Day! Surely that was well, when peace and good-will towardsmen should be over all the earth--and he, Henry, would meet him at thehouse of the Père Anselme and explain all to him, and then take him backto Sabine. He would not see her again until then. 

He found telegraph forms on his writing-table and rapidly wrote out hismessage. "Come immediately by first train, meet me at house of PèreAnselme, a matter of gravest importance to you and Sabine, " and hesigned it "Fordyce. " Then he firmly controlled himself and went off withit into the night. 

The cold air struck his face and confronted him with its fierceness; thewind 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 sentthe telegram. Then he stopped at the _presbytère_. He must speak oncemore to the priest. The Père Anselme led him in to his bare littleparlor and drew him to the warm china stove. It was only two hours sincethey 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 thestory now, and it is terrible enough; but I want you to help me tosecure her happiness. Michael Arranstoun is her husband, as yousupposed, and she loves him. " The old priest nodded his headcomprehendingly, and Henry went on. "They only parted to save me pain. It was a tremendous sacrifice which, of course, I cannot accept. So nowI have sent for him, and I want you to let me meet him here at yourhouse, and explain everything to him to-morrow before he sees her. Ihope, if he gets my telegram in time, he will catch the train from Parisat midnight to-night; it gets in about nine in the morning. Then theycan be happy on Christmas Day. "

"You have done nobly, my son, " and the Père Anselme lifted his hand inblessing. "It is very merciful that this has been in time. You will notbe 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--Andhow is she, our dear Dame d'Héronac? Does she know that her husband willcome?"

"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 wasfine 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 herstory is a pitiful one, because she was so young. "

"It is possible it has been well for them, " the priest saidmeditatively, looking into the glowing fire in the stove whose door hehad opened. "They were too young and undisciplined at first forhappiness--they have come through so much suffering now they will clingto each other and joy and not let it slip from their hands. She is moresuited to such a one as the Seigneur of Arranstoun than any other--thereis a vigor of youth in her which must find expression. And it issomething to be of noble blood, after all. " Here he turned and lookedcontemplatively at Henry. "It makes one able to surmount anguish andremain a gentleman with manners, even at such a cruel crisis as this. You have all my deep understanding and sympathy, my son. I, too, havepassed that way, and know your pain. But consolation will come. I findit here in the cure of souls--you will find it in your England, leadingyour fellow countrymen to finer ends. It is not for all of us, the gloryof the dawn or the meridian, but we can all secure a sunset of blessedpeace if we will. " And then, as Henry wrung his thin old hand, hemuttered with tenderness, "Good-night, and _pax vobiscum_, " while amoisture glistened in his keen black eyes. 

And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into hislittle room, this thought going on with him:

"A great gentleman--though my Dame d'Héronac will be happier with thefierce one. Youth must have its day, and all is well. "

But Henry, striding in the dark with the sound of the rushing sea forcompany, found no consolation. 

When he got back to the château and was going up the chief staircase tohis room, he met Moravia coming down. She had just left Sabine and knewthe outlines of what had happened. Her astonishment and distress hadbeen great, but underneath, as she was only human, there was some senseof personal upliftment; she could try to comfort the disconsolate loverat least. Sabine had given her to understand that nothing was finallysettled between herself and Henry, but Moravia felt there could be onlyone 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 thecharacter of fond friend that she put out her hand and grasped his insilent sympathy. 

"Henry, " she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, "my heartis breaking for you. Can I do anything?"

He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being asingularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love andsolicitude 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 littlesitting-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 lookfrozen, " she told him. "I shall make you sit in the big chair by thefire while I give you something to drink. It is only half-past six. "

Then with fond severity she pushed him into a comfortable _bergère_, and, leaving him, gave an order to her maid in the next room to bringsome brandy. But before it came Moravia went back again, and drawing alow stool sat down almost at Henry's feet. 

The fire and her gentleness were soothing to him, as he lay therehuddled in the chair. The physical reaction was upon him from the shockand he felt almost as though he were going to faint. 

Moravia watched him anxiously for some time without speaking--he was sovery 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 byhis side. 

"Drink this, " she commanded kindly. "I shall not stir until you do. "

Henry took the glass with nerveless fingers and gulped down the liquidas he was bid, but although she took the glass from him she did not getoff 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 hisright hand and chafing it between her own to bring back some life intohim, while she kept up a murmured flow of sweet sympathy--as one wouldtalk to an unhappy child. 

Henry was not actually listening to her, but the warmth and the greatvibrations 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 takeall pain away from you, dear, if I could, but I can't do anything, onlyjust pet and love you into feeling better. After all, everything passesin 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 andwant to make you less unhappy. "

The Princess thoroughly believed in La Rochefoucauld's maxim with theadvice that people were more likely to take to a new passion when stillagitated 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, todo her very uttermost to draw Henry to herself, and thought it muchwiser to begin to strike when the iron was hot. 

Henry did not answer her; he merely pressed her hand, while he thoughthow un-English, her action was, and how very kind. She was certainly thedearest 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 justleft her. She does not know what you mean to do, but I am sure I canguess. You mean to give her back to Mr. Arranstoun--and it will be muchbetter. She has always been in love with him, I believe, and would neverhave agreed to try to arrange for a divorce if she had not been awfullyjealous about Daisy Van der Horn. I remember now telling her quiteinnocently 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 spitefulover 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, inall these years of our intimate friendship she never has told me a wordof her story until just now. She was keeping it all in to herself--Ican't think why. "

Henry did speak at last, but his words came slowly. "She wanted toforget, poor little girl, and that was the best way to bury it all outof sight. "

"There you are quite wrong, " returned Moravia, now seated upon herfootstool again, very close, with her elbows propped on Henry's knees, while she still held his hands and intermittently caressed them with hercheek. "That is the way to keep hurts burning and paining forever, fostering them all in the dark--it is much better to speak about themand let the sun get in on them and take all their sorrow away. That iswhy I would not let you be by yourself now, dear friend, as I supposeone of your reserved countrymen would have done. I just determined tomake you talk about it, and to realize that there are lots of lovelyother things to comfort you, and that you are not all alone. "

Henry was strangely touched at her kind common sense; he already feltbetter and not so utterly crushed out with despair. He told her howsweet and good she was and what a true, unselfish woman--but Moraviashook her head. 

"I am not a bit; it is purely interested, because I am so awfully fondof you myself. I _love_ to pet you--there!" and she laughed softly, sohappy to see that she had been able even to make this slight effect, forshe saw the color had come back in a measure to his face, and her keenbrain told her that this was the right tack to go upon--not to be tooserious or show any sentiment, but just to use a sharp knife and cutround all the wound and then pour honey and balm into it herself. 

"You and Sabine would never really have been happy together, " she nowtold him. "You were much too subservient to her and let her order youabout. She would have grown into a bully. Now, Mr. Arranstoun won'tstand a scrap of nonsense, I am sure; he would make any woman obeyhim--if necessary by using brute force! They are perfectly suited to oneanother, and very soon you will realize it and won't care. Do youremember how we talked at dinner that night at Ebbsworth about womenhaving to go through a stage in their lives sooner or later when theyadored just strength in a man and wanted a master? Well, I wondered thenif Sabine had passed hers, but I was afraid of hurting you, so I wouldnot say that I rather thought she had not. "

"Oh, I wish you had!" Henry spoke at last. "And yet, no--the whole thinghas 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 isnot too late, thank God--the divorce proceedings can be quashed; itwould 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 hereimmediately, we could explain it all to him and make him wire to hislawyers 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 tellSabine; we will just let her mope there up in her room, feeling asmiserable as she deserves to be for not knowing her own mind. We willall have a nice dinner--no, that won't be it--you and I will dine alonehere, up in this room, and Papa can talk to Madame Imogen. In thishouse, thank goodness, we can all do what we like, and I am not going toleave you, Henry, until we have got to say good-night. I don't carewhether you want me or not--I have just taken charge of you, and I meanyou to do what I wish--there!"

And she crept closer to him again and laid her face upon his breast, sothat his cheek was resting upon her soft dark hair. Great waves ofcomfort flowed to Henry. This sweet woman loved him, at all events. Sohe 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 sheallowed him to go to his room to dress for dinner, a great measure ofhis usual nerve and balance was restored. She had not given him a momentto think, even shaking her finger at him and saying that if he was morethan twenty minutes dressing, she would herself come and fetch him andbring him back to her room. 

Then, when he had left her, this true daughter of Eve, after orderingdinner to be served to them, proceeded to make herself as beautiful aspossible for the next scene. She felt radiant. It was enormous what shehad done. 

"Why, he was on the verge of suicide!" she said to herself, "and now heis almost ready to smile. Before the evening is over I shall have madehim kiss me--and before a month is past we shall be engaged. Whatperfect nonsense to have silly mawkish sentiment over anything! Thething to do is to win one's game. "

CHAPTER XXII

Lord Fordyce found himself dressing in the usual way and with the usualcare, such creatures of habit are we--and yet, two hours earlier, he hadfelt that life was over for him. Although he did not know it, Moraviahad been like a strong restorative applied at the right moment, and thecrisis of his agony had gone by. It was not that he was not stillovercome by sorrow, or that moments of complete anguish would not recur, but the current had been diverted from taking a fatal turn, andgradually things would mend. The perfect, practical common sense ofMoravia was so good for him. She was not intellectual like Sabine, shewas just a dear, beautiful, kind, ordinary woman, extremely in love withhim, but too truly American ever to lose her head, and now in realspirits at the prospect of playing so delightful a game. She wasthoroughly versed in the ways of male creatures, and although shepossessed none of Sabine's indescribable charm, she had had numbers ofadmirers and would-be lovers and was in every way fitted to cope withany man. This evening, she had determined so to soothe, flatter and petHenry that he should go to bed not realizing that there was any changein himself, but should be in reality completely changed. Herpreparations had been swift but elaborate. She had rushed to MadameImogen's room, and got her to take special messages to the chef, anddinner would be waited on by her own maid--with Nicholas just to run inand open the champagne. Then she selected a ravishing rose-pink chiffontea-gown, all lacy and fresh, and lastly she had a big fire made up andall the curtains drawn, and so she awaited Henry's coming withanticipations of delight. She had even got Mr. Cloudwater (that _pèreaprivoisé!_) to mix her two dry Martini cocktails, which were ready forher guest. 

Henry knocked at the door exactly at eight o'clock, and she went to meethim with all the air of authority of a mother, and led him into theroom, pushing him gently into the chair she had prepared for him. A manmay have a broken heart--but the hurt cannot feel so great when he issurrounded with every comfort and ministered to by a beautiful youngwoman, who is not only in love with him, but has the nerve to keep herhead 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 andsilent and adoring, Henry by this time would have been quite as unhappyas he had been at first; but he was too courteous by nature not to tryto be polite and appreciative of kindness when she tendered it sofrankly, no matter what his inward feelings might be--and this she knewshe could count upon and meant to exploit. She argued very truly that ifhe 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 shemade him drink the cocktail, and then she deliberately spoke of Sabine, wondering if she would be awfully surprised to see Michael, and if hewould 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 politicsand got him to explain points to her, and at every moment she poured ininsidious flattery and frank, kind affection, so that by the time theice had come, Henry had begun to feel unaccountably soothed. She wasreally a beautiful woman and arranged with a wonderful _chic_, and herealized that she had never looked more charming or been so sweet. Shehad all the sense of power being on her side, now that she had a freehand, unhampered by honor to her friend, and when the dessert and thecigarettes had come, she felt that she might indulge in a littlesentiment. 

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

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

"I do love your light hair, Henry, " she said aloud, "and it is so wellbrushed. You Englishmen are certainly _soigné_ creatures, and I likeyour lazy, easy grace--as though you would never put yourself out forany one. I can't bear a fuss. " She puffed her cigarette and did not waitfor him to answer her, but prattled on perfectly at ease. Even hiscourtesy would not have prevented him from snubbing her, if she had beenthe least tentative in her caressings, or the least diffident. But shejust took it as a matter of course that she could stroke his hair if shewanted to, and presently it began to give him a sensation of pleasureand rest. If she had, by word or look, suggested that she expected somereturn, Henry would have frozen at once--but all she did was apparentlyonly to please herself, and so he had no defense to make. Still in thecharacter of domestic tyrant, she presently led him to the comfortablearmchair, and once more seated herself upon the stool close to the fireby his side. Here she was silent for a few moments, letting the comfortof the whole scene sink in to his brain--and then, when the maid came into clear away the dinner-table, she got up and went to the piano, whereshe played some soft, but not sentimental tunes. Music of a certain sortwould be the worst thing for him, but a light air while Marie was in theroom 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 hisface was once more overcome by melancholy, although he greeted her witha smile. 

Something further must be done. 

"Henry, " she said, cooingly, kneeling down beside him and taking hishand, "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 thethought 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 withothers that you can obtain--the strange law of periodicity will be inmotion and, if you have only will enough, gradually the pictures thatcan be yours will unconsciously have taken the place of the old oneswhich have caused you pain. Is it not much better to do that than justto let yourself grieve--surely it is more like a man?"

Henry looked at her, a little startled. This idea had never presenteditself to him. Yes, it was certainly more like a man to try any measurethan "just to grieve, " and what if there should be some truth in thissuggestion--? What did the "law of periodicity" mean? What an Americanphrase! How apt they were at coining expressive sentences. He lookedinto the glowing ashes--there he seemed to see in ruins the whole fabricof his dreams--but if there was a law which brought thoughts back, andback again at the same hour each day, then Moravia was right: he mustblot out the old pictures and conjure up new ones--but what could theybe--?

"You are musing, Henry, " Moravia's voice went on. "Are you thinking overwhat I said? I hope so, and you will find it is true. See, I will tellyou what to visualize there in the fire. You are looking at a splendidEnglish home, all peace and warmth, and you see yourself in it happy andsurrounded by friends. And you see yourself a great man, the center ofpolitical interest, and everything coming toward you that heart candesire. It is awfully wanting in common sense to think because youcannot obtain one woman there are none others in the world. "

"Awfully, " agreed Henry--suddenly taking in the attractive picture shemade, seated there at his knees, her white hand holding his hand. Histhoughts wandered for a moment, as thought will do when the mind isoverstrained; they wandered to the speculation of why American womenshould have such small and white hands, and then he brought himself backto the actual conversation. 

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

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

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

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

This plan she proceeded to put into practice. She exploited the subjectthey had been talking of to its length, and aroused a sharp discussionand argument--while she took care to place herself in the most alluringattitudes as close to Henry as she possibly could be, while maintaininga basis of frank friendship, and then she changed the current by gettinghim to explain to her exactly what he had done about Michael, and howthey should arrange the meeting between the two, putting into hereagerness all the sparkle that she would have used in collaborating withhim over the placing of the presents upon a Christmas tree--until, atlast, 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 forher deception, but intend her to keep her word to you; and then you cantake Mr. Arranstoun up to her sitting-room when you have brought himfrom the Père Anselme's--and just push him in and let them explainmatters 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, withauthority. "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 hisspirit every sort of comfort and subtle flattery until, when the clockstruck 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 herpretty 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 disturbinganalyzations in his mind as to its meaning. 

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

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

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

Moravia thought this the right moment to show a little furthersentiment. 

"Good-night, Henry, " she faltered. "It has been rather heaven forme--but I don't think I'll let you dine up here alone with meagain--it--it might make my heart ache, too. " And then she dexterouslyglided 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, sheclasped 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 Ishall make him happy. Ouida was most certainly right when she said, 'Menare not vicious; they are but children. '"

CHAPTER XXIII

Very early on Christmas morning, Lord Fordyce went down to the_presbytère_ and walked with the Père Anselme on his way to Mass. He hadcome to a conclusion during the night. The worthy priest would be themore fitting person to see Michael than he, himself; he felt he couldwell leave all explanations in those able hands--and then, when his oldfriend knew everything, he, Henry, would meet him and bring him to theChâteau of Héronac, and so to Sabine. 

The Père Anselme was quite willing to undertake this mission; he wouldhave returned to his breakfast by then and would await Michael'sarrival, he told Henry. Michael would come from the station, twentykilometers away, in Henry's motor. 

The wind had got up, and a gloriously rough sea beat itself against therocks. The thundering surf seemed some comfort to Henry. He wasunconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had everimagined that he could feel after such a blow. Moravia's maneuvrings andsweet sympathy had been most effective, and Henry had fallen asleepwhile her spell was still upon him--and only awakened after severalhours of refreshing slumber. Then it was he decided upon the plan, whichhe put into execution as soon as daylight came. Now he left the oldpriest 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 itcame with one of pleasure--and the cold air exhilarated his blood. 

Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxietyand speculation. What had happened? There was no clue in Henry's drywords in the telegram. Had there been some disaster? Was Henry violentlyangry with him? What would their meeting bring? He had come in to theRitz from a dinner party, and had got the telegram just in time to rushstraight to the station with a hastily-packed bag, and get into analmost-moving train, and all night long he had wondered and wondered, ashe sat in the corner of his carriage. But whatever had happened was arelief--it produced action. He had no longer just to try to kill timeand stifle thought; he could do something for good or ill. 

It seemed as though he would never arrive, as the hours wore on and dawnfaded into daylight. Then, at last, the crawling engine drew up at hisdestination, and he got out and recognized Henry's chauffeur waitingfor him on the platform. The swift rush through the cold air refreshedhim, and took away the fatigue of the long night--and soon they haddrawn up at the door of the _presbytère_, and he found himself beingshown by the priest's ancient housekeeper into the spotlessly cleanparlor. 

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

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

Michael sat down. 

"Please tell me everything, " he said. 

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

"The good God at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that ourDame d'Héronac has not been altogether happy of late--and upon mysuggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what Ibelieve to be the truth--which you, sir, can corroborate--namely, thatyou are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, butfrom a motive of loyalty to your friend. "

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

The priest was silent, so he went on:

"And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?--release her and give her backto me--or what, _mon Père_?"

"Is it necessary to ask?" and Père Anselme lifted questioning and almostwhimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is agentleman!"

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

"The good God tries no one beyond his strength--he will findconsolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer youthe hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"--here the oldman made a courtly bow--"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, youcan take the road to the Château of Héronac, where you will find LordFordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to MadameSabine. That is as he may think wisest--I believe she is quiteunprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you arethe best judge yourself. "

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

"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drewit all upon yourselves--since the good God has seen fit to restore youto 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 havenot the grain of an excuse to offer--and yet she has forgiven me. Womenare certainly angels, are they not, _mon Père_?"

The Curé of Héronac sighed gently. 

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

Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were readyfor them in the other room, and the Père Anselme led the way withoutfurther words. 

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

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

"Come and join us there by the high parapet, Henry, as soon as you havetaken 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 smilingmerrily, 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 sweetscent, but the Lady of Héronac was absent, or so it seemed. 

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

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

"Sabine, " Henry said, "I want you to be very happy on this Christmasday, and so I have brought your husband back to you. All these foolishdivorce proceedings are going to be stopped, and you and he can settleall your differences, together, dear--" then, as a glad cry forceditself from Sabine's lips--his voice broke with emotion. She stretchedout her hands to him, and he took one and drew her to Michael, who stoodbehind 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 themarriage service is true, I expect. 'Those whom God hath joined togetherlet no man put asunder. '" Then he dropped their hands, and turned towardthe door. 

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

But Lord Fordyce could bear no more--and murmuring some kind ofblessing, he got from the room, leaving the two there in the embrasureof 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 likeone blind--the poignant anguish had returned, and the mantle of comfortfell from his shoulders. He was human, after all, and the picture of therapture 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 thecauseway bridge into the boiling sea, and finish all the pain. He sawMoravia's blue velvet dress in the distance down the road when he leftthe lodge gates, and he fled into the garden; he must be alone--but shehad seen him go, and knew that another crisis had come and that she mustconquer this time also. So apparently only for the gratification ofGirolamo, she turned and entered the garden--the garden which seemed tobe a predestined spot for the stratagems of lovers!--then she strolledtoward the sea-wall, not turning her head in the direction where sheplainly perceived Henry had gone, but taking care that Girolamo shouldsee him, as she knew he would run to him. This he immediately did, anddragged his victim back to his mother in the pavilion which looked outover the sea. Girolamo was now three years old and a considerable imp;he displayed Henry proudly and boasted of his catch--while Moraviascolded him sweetly and asked Henry to forgive them for intruding uponhis solitude. 

"You know I understand you must want to be alone, dear friend, and Iwould not have come if I had seen you, " she said, tenderly, while sheturned and, leaning out, beckoned to the nurse, whom she could just seeacross the causeway on the courtyard wall, where the raised parapet was. Then allowing her feelings to overcome her judgment, she flung out herarms 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 youso cold and white and numb--I want to warm and comfort and love you backto life again----!"

At this minute, the sun burst through the scudding clouds, and blazed inupon them from the archway; and it seemed to Henry as if a new vitalityrushed into his frozen veins. She was so human and pretty, and young andreal. Love for him spoke from her sparkling, brown eyes. The ascendancyshe 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 hishands--but a sudden change of feeling seemed to come over Moravia forshe 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 raisedher eyes, which were suffused with tears. "Oh! it seems such horridwaste for you to be sick with grief for Sabine, who is happy now--andthat only I must grieve----"

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

"Moravia, " he said, tenderly. "You shall not grieve, dear child--If youwant me, take me, and I will give you all the devotion of truefriendship--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, thisdeclaration! but, as a matter of fact, it was beyond Moravia's wildesthopes. She had not a single doubt in her astute American mind that, onceshe should have the right to the society of Henry--with her knowledge ofthe ways of man--that she would soon be able to obliterate all regretsfor 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 wantyou--more than anything I have ever wanted in my life--and I will makeyou forget all your hurts--in my arms. "

There was certainly nothing left for Lord Fordyce, being a gallantgentleman, to do but to stoop his tall head and kiss her--and, to hissurprise, he found this duty turn into a pleasure--so that, in a fewmoments, when they were close together looking out upon the wavesthrough the pavilion's wide windows, he encircled her with his arm--andthen he burst into a laugh, but though it was cynical, it contained nobitterness. 

"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--andnow----"

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

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

 * * * * *

The Père Anselme noticed that his only congregation from the Châteauconsisted of Mr. Cloudwater and Madame Imogen; and he thanked the goodGod--as he sent up a fervent prayer for the absentees' happiness. 

"It means that they two are near heaven, and that consolation will cometo the disconsolate one, since all four remain at home, " he toldhimself. This was a dénouement worthy of Christmas Day, and of far morevalue 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 hisvestry, "and it is fitting that youth should find its mate. We grieveand wring our hearts--and nothing is final--and while there is lifethere 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 indeedgiven back to each other was over, Michael drew Sabine to the windowseat where she had been crouching only that short while before in silentmisery. 

"Sweetheart, " he entreated, "now you have got to tell me everything--doyou understand, Sabine--every single thing from the first moment in thechapel 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 youdid 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 wassillier and more ignorant than any other girl of seventeen couldpossibly be, I think--don't you? Oh! don't let us speak of that part--Ionly remember that when you kissed me first in the chapel some kind ofstrange emotion came to me--then I was frightened----"

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

"Perhaps I had--I did not know myself--only that there in the gray dawneverything seemed perfectly awful and horror and terror came upon meagain, and I had only one wild impulse to rush away--surely you canunderstand--" 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 andplayed with her wedding ring, but not taking it off, while Sabinethrilled 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 thedoor on to the balcony I heard you call my name sleepily--and for onesecond I nearly went back--but I did not, and got safely away and to thehotel!"

"Think of my not waking!" Michael exclaimed. "If only I had--you wouldnever have been allowed to go--it is maddening to remember what thatsleep cost--but how did you manage at the hotel?"

"It was after five o'clock and the side door was open into the yard. Nota soul saw me, and I carried out my original plan. I think when I was inthe train I had already begun to regret bitterly, but it was too lateto go back--and then next day your letter came to me at Mr. Parsons' andall 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 andeverything and have lots of nice clothes and join my friend Moravia inParis. You see, I was still just a silly ignorant child. Mr. Parsons gotme a good maid who is with me still, and he agreed at last to my takingthe name of Howard--I thought if I kept the Arranstoun everyone wouldknow. "

"But what did you intend to do, darling, with your life. We were bothcrazy, 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 underneaththere was a great excitement all the time in the thought of lookingperfectly splendid in being a grand grown-up lady when you cameback--for of course I believed then that we must meet again. "

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

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

"What is it, darling?" he asked with almost a tone of anxiety in hisvoice. "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 dofully realize that whatever you did was my fault for leaving youalone--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 mewhat 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 amaid!

Sabine clasped her hands together--she was deeply moved. 

"Oh, Michael--you are stupid! How can I possibly tell you--if you won'tunderstand. "

Then she jumped up suddenly and swiftly brought her blue-despatch boxfrom beside her writing-table and unlocked it with her braceletkey--while Michael with an anxious, puzzled face watched her intently. She sat down again beside him when she had found what she sought--theclosed 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 tolook, " Michael said. "All that part of your life is over and we aregoing to begin afresh, darling one, no matter what you did. "

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

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

"My God!" cried Michael, the sudden violent emotion making him verypale. "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 neitherof them speak--his caresses were so fierce. At last he exclaimedbrokenly, "Sabine--with the knowledge of this between us how could youever have even contemplated belonging to another man--Oh! if I had onlyknown. Where is--my son?"

"You must listen, Michael, to everything, " Sabine whispered, "then youwill understand--I was simply terrified when I realized at last, andonly wanted to go back to you and be comforted, so I wrote a letter atonce to tell you, and as Mr. Parsons was in England again I sent it tohim to have it put safely into your hands. But by then you had goneright off to China, and Mr. Parsons sent the letter back to me, it wasuseless 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, nowonder you hated me then, and could not forgive me even afterward. "

"I did not hate you--I was only terrified and longing to rush offsomewhere and hide--so Simone suggested San Francisco--the furthest offshe knew, and we hurried over there and then I was awfully ill, and whenmy baby was born I very nearly died. "

Michael was wordless, he could only kiss her. "That is what made him sodelicate--my wretchedness and rushing about, " she went on, "and so I waspunished because, after three months, God took him back again--my dearlittle 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 Ithought--I thought, we should go back to Arranstoun and finish ourestrangements and be happy again--the three of us--when you did comehome--I grew radiant and quite well--" Here two big tears gathered inher violet eyes and fell upon Michael's hand, and he shivered with theintensity of his feelings as he held her close. 

"We had made our plans to go East--but my little sweetheart caught coldsomehow--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 notcare what happened to me for a long while. I just wanted to get back toMoravia, not knowing she had left Paris for Rome--and then I crossed inJuly--and came here to Brittany and saw and bought Héronac as I told youbefore. I heard then that you had not returned from China or made anysign--and it seemed all so cruel and ruthless, and as there were nolonger any ties between us I thought that I would crush you from my lifeand forget you, and that I would educate myself and make something of mymind. "

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

She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, nowsoft 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 besoughther to go on. 

"The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you--and my lifegrew so peaceful with the Père Anselme and Madame Imogen here atHéronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies keptdeveloping for me. I seemed to grow up and realize things and thememory of you grew less and less--but society never held out anyattractions for me--only to be with Moravia. I had taken almost aloathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory, not a single one attracted me in the least degree--until this summer atCarlsbad when we met Henry. And he appeared so good and true andkind--and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guidinghand to greatness of purpose in life--I liked him--but I must tell youthe truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am, " here she heldtightly to Michael's hand--"I do not think I would ever have promisedhim at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in thepaper that you were at Ostende--with Daisy Van der Horn. Thatexasperated me--even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent toyou after five years. I had never seen your name in the paper before, itwas the first indication I had had that you had come home--and the wholething wounded my pride. I felt that I must ask for my freedom from youbefore you possibly could ask for yours from me. So I told Henry thatvery night that I had made up my mind. "

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

"I dare say--but I am telling you my story, Michael--Well, Henry was sowonderful, so good--and it got so that he seemed to mean everythingfine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less andless to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite--except for theirritation I felt about Daisy--and then by that extraordinary turn offate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the nameof the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurriedpostscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one--I saw you botharrive 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 Michaellooked into her eyes with fond command. 

"It made my heart beat and my knees tremble and a strange thrill cameover me--I ought to have known then that to feel like that did not meanindifference--oughtn't I?"

"I expect so--but what a moment it was when we did meet, you must cometo that!"

"Arrogant, darling creature you are, Michael! You love to make merecount all these things, " and Sabine looked so sweetly mutinous that hecould not remain tranquilly listening for the moment, but had to makepassionate love to her--whispering every sort of endearment into herlittle ear--though presently she continued the recital of her storyagain:

"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 hadall the suffering and you had gone free--and I just felt I wanted topunish you by pretending not to know you! Think of it! How small--andyet there underneath I felt your old horribly powerful charm!"

"Oh, you did, did you! You darling, " Michael exclaimed--and what do yousuppose I felt--if we had only rushed there and then into each other'sarms!"

"I was quite prepared for you in the garden--and did not I play my partwell! You got quite white, you know with surprise--and I feltexquisitely excited. I could see you had come in all innocence--havingprobably forgotten our joking arrangement that I should call myself Mrs. Howard--I could not think why you did not speak out and denounce me. Ithurt my pride, I thought it was because you wanted to divorce me andmarry Daisy that you were indifferent about it. I did not know it wasbecause you had given your word of honor to Henry not to interfere withthe woman he loved. Then after dinner Henry told me you knew that he andI were practically engaged--that stung me deeply--it seemed to proveyour indifference--so things developed and we met in thegarden--Michael, was not that a wonderful hour! How we both acted. Ifyou had indicated by word or look that you remembered me, I could nothave kept it up, we should have had to tell Henry then--we were playingat 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 theboat--being with you was like some intoxicating drink--I was moreexcited than I had ever been in my life. I was horrid toward Henry, Iwould not own it to myself, but I felt him to be the stumbling block inthe way. So I was extra nice to him to convince myself--and I let himhold my arm, which I had never done before and you saw that in thegarden. I suppose--and thought I loved him and so went--that was nice ofyou, Michael--but stupid, wasn't it!"

"Ridiculously stupid, everything I did was stupid that separated youfrom me. The natural action of my character would have been just toseize you again and carry you off resisting or unresisting toArranstoun, 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 thisroom and opened this despatch-box and read your horrid letter again--andI believe I looked into the blue leather case, too"--here she opened itonce more--and they both examined it tenderly. "Of course you can't seeanything 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 havesobbed aloud, I wanted you so----"

"My dear, dear, little girl----"

"Henry had told me casually that afternoon your story, and how he hadnot stayed at Arranstoun for the wedding because he thought your actionso unfair to the bride!--and how that now you felt rather a dog in themanger about her. That infuriated me! Can't you understand I had onlyone 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 couldreally make me happy, if not he would release me then. I felt if hewould take me, all bruised and restless, and comfort me and bring mepeace, I did indeed wish to be his wife--and if nothing more hadhappened we might have grown quite happy from then, but we went toEngland--and I saw you again--and--Oh! well, Michael, need I tell youany more? You know how we fenced and how at last we could not bearit--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 thisyesterday--the Père Anselme had suggested to him to come and ask me forthe truth. He behaved too nobly--but I did not know what he intended todo, nor if it were too late to stop the divorce or anything, so I wasmiserable. "

"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 ofview that is the best thing to be done. We could not possibly go on allstaying here, it would be grotesque--and I am quite determined that Iwill never leave you again--do you hear, Sabine?" And he turned her faceand made her look into his eyes. 

"Yes, I hear!--and know that you were always the most masterfulcreature!"

"Do you want to change me?"

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

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

 * * * * *

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

"There is the picture, darling, that you fell through and--here is Binkowaiting to receive and welcome you!"

The mass of fat wrinkles got up from his basket and condescended, aftershowing a wild but suppressed joy at the sight of his master, to bere-introduced to his mistress who expressed due appreciation of hisbeauty. 

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

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

The most ecstatic happiness was permeating them both, and it all seemedlike a divine dream to be there together and alone. They reconstructedevery incident of their first meeting in a fond duet--each supplying alink, and they talked of all their new existence together and what itwould mean, and presently Michael drew Sabine toward the chapel wherethe lights were all lit. 

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

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

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

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

 THE END