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

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

Until he could find out the meaning of all this comedy, he must not let Henry have an idea that there was anything underneath; and then with a pang of mortification and pain he remembered his promise to Henry--and he 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; she must be alone--so on the plea of letters to write, she dismissed them with Madame Imogen to show them to their rooms in the other part of the house which was connected to this, her two great turrets and middle immense room, by a pa.s.sage which went along from the turret which contained her bedroom.

"You won't mind, perhaps, dining at half past seven?" she said as she paused at her door, "because our good Cure, Pere Anselme is coming, and he hates to sit up late."

And with the corner of his eye, Michael saw that before he hurried after him, Henry had bent and surrept.i.tiously kissed his hostess' hand--and a sudden blinding, unreasoning rage shook him as he stalked on to his allotted apartment.

CHAPTER X

Sabine decided to be a little late for dinner--three minutes, just to give the rest of the party time to be a.s.sembled in the big salon. She was coming from the communicating pa.s.sage to her part of the house when Mr. Arranstoun came out of his room, and they were obliged to go down the great staircase together.

To see him suddenly in evening dress like this brought her wedding night back so vividly to her, she with difficulty kept a gasp from her breath.

He was certainly the most splendidly good-looking creature, with his blue eyes and dark hair and much fairer little moustache.

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

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

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

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

He did not speak as they went along the gallery--this disconcerted her--what did it mean? She had been prepared to fence with him, and keep him in his place, she was ready to defend herself on all sides--and no defence seemed necessary! A sudden cold feeling came over her as though excitement had died down and she opened the salon door quickly and advanced into the room.

Michael had come to a determination while dressing--Henry had walked in and smoked a cigarette with him before he began, and had then showed plainly his joy and satisfaction. She--his worshiped lady--had never before been so tender and gracious, and he was awfully happy because things were going well. And what did his friend Michael think of his choice? Was she not the sweetest woman in the world?

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

Henry's happiness and contentment touched him--his dear old friend!--he felt extraordinarily upset. But when Lord Fordyce had gone he rapidly reviewed matters and made up his mind. At all events, for the present, he would be guided by what Sabine's att.i.tude should be herself. He would certainly see her alone on the following day and then she would most likely broach the subject and they could agree what to do--for that Henry must know some day was an incontestable fact. He, Michael, would make some excuse and leave Heronac by the next evening, it was impossible to go on playing such a part, and not fair to any one, least of all to his friend.

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

But when he opened his door and saw her exquisite slender figure tripping forward from the dark pa.s.sage, a fierce pain gripped his heart, and he said between his teeth:

"My G.o.d! if it had not been too late!"

The Dame d'Heronac was in wild spirits at dinner--and her cheeks burned like glowing roses. Monsieur le Cure watched her with his wise, black eye.

"The child is not herself," he thought. "It is possible that this Englishman may mean a great deal to her--but he is of the gentle type, not of the sort one would believe to make strong pa.s.sions--no--now if it had been the other one--the friend--that one could have seen some light through--a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman--a fine young man, a splendid young man--but yes."

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

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

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

She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversation beyond what cordial politeness compelled. It was to Pere Anselme that she almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies to Madame Imogen. But her whole atmosphere was radiating with provoking fascination--and as they all rose from table she took Lord Fordyce's arm.

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

Henry could not refrain from caressing with his other hand the little cold one lying on his arm as they walked along--while he whispered with pa.s.sionate 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, and that 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 upon the slippery floor, for the Dame d'Heronac stumbled a little and then gasped:

"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 appear to be black as night.

The gay sprite of the dinner-table seemed to have taken her departure and a dignified and serious hostess filled her place. A hostess who discoursed of gardens, and architecture, and such subjects--and at ten o'clock when the Pere Anselme gave his blessing and wished the company good-night, also gave a white hand to her guests, saying that Madame Imogen would show them the small salon where they could smoke and have their drinks before retiring to their rooms, then she bowed to them and walked off slowly to her part of the house.

When she had gone, Michael said a little hoa.r.s.ely to Henry:

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

An hour or two later, when the whole chateau was wrapped in darkness--the mistress of it crept from her bed-room to the great sitting-room, and turning on the light, she unlocked a blue despatch-box which stood beside her writing-table. From this she took a letter, marked a little with former perusals--and she read it over once more from beginning to end.

It had

Arranstoun Castle, Scotland,

stamped upon it in red and it bore a date in June, 1907. It had no beginning 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 rolled in 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 be free, and had made no protest. Perhaps he was glad and intended to marry Miss Daisy van der Horn! Her tears dried suddenly--and her cheeks burned. She must think this situation out, and not just drift. It was plain that Michael had been astonished to the point of stupefaction on seeing her. He could not have known then that his friend wished to marry her--Sabine--only that his friend wished to marry the lady they were going to see. But he knew it afterwards, he knew it at dinner--and yet he 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 freedom and get the divorce as quickly as possible. She could count upon herself not to betray the slightest feeling in the interview. If only that strange turn of fate had not brought Lord Fordyce into her life, what glorious pleasure she would now take in trying her uttermost to fascinate and attract Michael--not that she desired him for herself!--only to punish him for all the past! But she was not free. She had given her word to Henry. The humiliation of feeling that Michael was making no protest, and would apparently from this fact agree willingly to divorce her, stung her pride and made her want to make him suffer and regret in some way. If she could believe that it was paining him, she would be glad--and if it appeared possible to keep up the pretence of unrecognition for longer than to-morrow, she would certainly do so; it was 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 a large blue enamel locket, and with a shiver she hastily shut down the lid, and as one fleeing from a ghost she ran back to bed.

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