Sabine went back into the walled garden again, and sat down under the shelter of an arbour of green. She wanted to re-read a letter of Henry Fordyce'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 she knew that and valued all its literary and artistic merits.

They had had long and frequent conversations in their last three days at Carlsbad, during which they had grown nearer and still better friends.

His gentleness, his courtesy and diffidence were such incense to her self-esteem, considering the position of importance he held in his own country and the great place he seemed to occupy in the Princess' regard.

And he was her servant--her slave--and would certainly make the most tender 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 have shown you that I can control myself, and have not made any love to you as I have longed to do. Won't you be generous, dearest, and give me some definite hope--some definite promise that, when you are free, you will give yourself to me and will be my wife----?"

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

"Yes--I have written to-day to my lawyer, Mr. Parsons--to advise me how to 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 to do.

"You must wait until I am free, though my marriage is no tie; it has never 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 for you 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 as pure as the stars!"

"I was extremely ignorant and foolish, as one is at seventeen. And now I want to make something of life--some great thing--and your goodness and your 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 their sitting-room:

"Do you know, Morri, I have almost decided to marry this Englishman--some day. You have often told me I was foolish not to free myself from any bonds, however lightly they held me--and I have never wanted to--but now I do--at once--as soon as possible--before--my husband can suggest being free of me! I have written to Mr. Parsons already--and I suppose it will not take very long. The laws there, I believe, are not so binding as in England--" and then she stopped short.

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

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

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

"I have never seen him since the day after we were married--there cannot be any difficulty about getting a divorce--can there?"

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

But Moravia sat a long time, after her maid had left her, staring into s.p.a.ce.

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

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

If Sabine had never seen her husband since the day after she was married--what had caused her to be so pale and sad and utterly changed when she came to her, Moravia, in Rome--a year or more afterwards, and to have made her break entirely with her uncle and aunt? The secret of her friend's life lay in that year--that year after she herself married and went off with her husband Girolamo to Italy--the year which Sabine had spent in America--alone. But she knew very well that, fond as they were of one another, Sabine would probably never tell her about it. So presently she got into bed and, sighing at the incongruity and inconsiderateness of circ.u.mstance, 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 with the understanding between them that, when Sabine could tell him that she was free, he would be at liberty to press his suit and she would give a favorable answer.

She thought of these past things now for a moment while she re-read Lord Fordyce's letter. It told her, there in her Heronac garden, in a hurried P.S. that a friend had joined him that moment at Havre, and clamored to be taken on the trip, too, claiming an old promise. He was quite a nice young 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 this interloper should be ruthlessly marooned! The post had evidently been going, and the P.S. must have been written in frightful haste after the advent of the friend--for his name was not even given.

Sabine had not wired. She felt a certain sense of relief. It would make someone to talk to Madame Imogen and the Cure--and cause there to be no _gene_.

Then her thoughts turned to Henry himself with tender friendship. So dear a companion, and how glad she would be to see him again. The ten days since they had parted at Carlsbad seemed actually long! Surely it was a wise thing to do to start her real life with one whom she could so truly respect; there could be no pitfalls and disappointments! And his great position in England would give scope for her ambition, which never could be satisfied like Moravia's with just social things. She would begin to study English politics and the other great matters which Henry was interested in. He would find that what she had told him at Carlsbad was true, and that, although he was naturally prejudiced against Americans, he would have to admit that she, as his wife, played the part as well, if not better, than one of his own countrywomen could have done. She thrilled a little as the picture came up before her of the large outlook she would have to survey, and the great situation she would have to adorn, but sure of Henry's devoted kindness and gentleness all the time.

Yes--she would certainly marry him, perhaps by next year. Mr. Parsons had written only yesterday, saying he had begun to take steps, as her freedom must come from the side of her husband--who could divorce her for desertion. She could not urge this plea against him, since she had left 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 of deep 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 chateau. To arrange various combinations of color in vases was her peculiar joy--and her flower decorations were her special care. She was just entering the great towered gate of Heronac where resided the concierge, when she heard the whir of a motor approaching in the distance, and she hurriedly slipped inside old Berthe's parlor. She disliked dust and strangers, who, fortunately, very seldom came upon this unbeaten track.

She was watching from the window until they should have pa.s.sed--it could not be her guests, it was quite an hour too soon, when the motor whizzed round the bend and stopped short at the gate! It was a big open one, and the occupants wore goggles over their eyes; but she recognized Lord Fordyce's figure, as he got out followed by a very tall young man, who called out cheerily:

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

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

CHAPTER IX

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

Five years in the wilds had not changed him much, except to add to his annoying charm. He was more absolutely dare-devil and sure of himself and careless of all else than ever. Miss Daisy Van der Horn--and a number of Clarices and Germaines and Lolos--were "just crazy" about him.

And they mattered to him not a single straw. He laughed--and kissed them when he felt inclined, and then when all had begun to weary him he rode away--or rather sent his polo ponies back to England and got into the express for Paris, expecting there to find Henry Fordyce returned from Carlsbad--only to hear that he had just started in his motor for Brittany, and by that evening would have arrived at Havre.

Michael had nothing special to do and so followed him there at once by train, 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 persuaded Henry to take him on with him, inwardly against that astute politician's, but diffident lover's will.

"Look here, Michael," he had said, "I am going to see the lady of my heart--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 of a man who is no longer quite young but madly in love.

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

"Alas!" Henry sighed. "I cannot say--she is an American, you know, and has been married to a brute of her own nation out west, whom she has to get 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 divorces wonderfully well over there though it is only a question of a few months, I suppose--but she would be worth waiting for for ten years----"