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 lady of Heronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the note in her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her great sitting-room.

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

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

For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's voluble description of Michael's leaving--pressing business which he had mistaken the date about--finally she had to pour out tea and smile happily at Henry and Pere Anselme.

But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the window seat 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 Pere Anselme was uneasy. Very little escaped his observation, and he saw at tea that his much loved Dame d'Heronac was not herself. She had not been herself the night before at dinner either--there was more in the coming of these two Englishmen than met the eye. He had seen her with Michael in the morning in the summer-house from a corner of the garden, too, where he was having a heated argument with the gardener in chief, as well as when he met them on the causeway bridge. He felt it his duty to do something to smooth matters, but what he could not decide. Perhaps she would tell him about it on the morrow, when he met her as was his custom on days that were not saints' days interfered with by ma.s.s.

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

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

"They look ever out to sea," the priest said; "they are watching the deep 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 it not, _mon pere_?" 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 the sea, have studied many things. She deserves happiness, Monsieur, her soul is as pure and as generous as an angel's--if Monsieur knew what she does 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 Lord Fordyce's voice was full of feeling.

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

"Yes?" Henry faltered, rather anxiously.

"When there are still some cinders alight--the peaceful happiness is not quite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with some risks."

"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'Heronac very strongly at heart, Monsieur, as you can guess, and I am not altogether sure that the cinders are not still red. It would be well for you to ascertain whether this 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 memory has power to disturb her. He must have been just such another as your friend, the Seigneur of Arranstoun. It is his presence which has reminded her of something of the past, since it cannot be he himself."

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

"Yes."

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

The Cure of Heronac shrugged his high shoulders slightly.

"It is not for me to give advice to a man of the world--but had it been in the days when I was Gaston d'Heronac, of the Imperial Guard, I should have told you--Use your intelligence, search, investigate for yourself.

Make her love you--leave nothing vague or to chance. As a priest, I must say that I find all divorces wrong--and that for me she should remain the wife of the other man."

"Even when the man is a drunkard or a lunatic, and there have been no children?" Henry demanded.

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

"Those whom G.o.d hath joined together let no man put asunder," and then he 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 of her--my good wishes and my prayers."

Lord Fordyce mounted the stairs to his lady's sitting-room with lagging steps. The Pere Anselme's advice had caused him to think deeply, and it was necessary that he had speech with Sabine, if she would let him come back into her sitting-room. He knocked at the door softly, as was his way, and when her voice said "_Entrez_" rather impatiently he did enter and advance with diffidence. She was sitting with her back to the light in one of the great window embrasures, so that he could not see the expression upon her face--and her tone became gentle as she welcomed him.

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

Henry sat down beside her on the orange velvet seat--and his eyes, full of 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 to keep me until Friday--it will be such pain to tear myself away."

"You have been dear," she answered very low. "You have shown me what real 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? I want to be good and happy--" Her sweet voice, with its faintly French accent, was full of pathos as a child's might be who is asking for comfort and sympathy for some threatened hurt. "Oh! I want to be in the sure shelter of your love always, so that storms like that one coming up over 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 kissed her hands with reverence.

"My darling--you shall indeed be worshipped and protected and kept from all clouds--only first tell me, Sabine, straight from your heart, do you really and truly desire to marry me? I do not ask you to tell me that you love me yet, because I know that you do not--but I want to know the 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 dear love----"