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

"My G.o.d!" he cried, fearing her silence. "Sabine, speak to me--I will not hold you for a second if you would rather be free--if you think I cannot 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 to forget--and if you will help me to forget them, then I know that I want to marry you, Henry--just as to-night perhaps that little sail we see out there will long to get in to a safe port."

He gave her his promise--with pa.s.sionately loving words, that he would protect and adore her always, and soothe and cherish her until all haunting memories were gone.

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

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

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

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

But, as she stood looking from the narrow, deep cas.e.m.e.nt up at the evening sky, suddenly, with terrible vividness, there came back to her mental vision the chapel at Arranstoun upon her wedding night, with its gorgeous splendors and the candles and the lilies and their strong scent, and it was as if she could feel Michael's kiss when the old clergyman's words were done.

She started forward with a little moan, and put her hands over her eyes.

Then her will rea.s.serted itself, and her firm lips closed tight.

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

She sat down in an armchair, and forced herself to picture her life with Henry. It would be full of such great and interesting things, and he would be there to guide and protect her always and keep her from all regrets.

So presently she grew calm and comforted, and by the time she was dressed for dinner, she was even bright and gay, and made a most sweet and gracious mistress of Heronac and of the heart of Henry Fordyce.

Just as they were leaving the dining-room, Nicholas brought her a message from Pere Anselme, to the effect that a very bad storm was coming up, and she must be sure to have the great iron shutters inside the lower dungeon windows securely closed. He had already told Berthe's son to take in the little boat.

And as they crossed the connecting pa.s.sage, Madame Imogen gave a scream, for a vivid flash of lightning came in through the open windows--followed by a terrific crash of thunder, and when they reached the sitting-room the storm had indeed come.

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

"Why, you look as glum as an owl, Michael Arranstoun!" Miss Van der Horn herself 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 and kissed both her hands--while his blue eyes blazed with devilment as he answered:

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

CHAPTER XIII

A whole month went by, and after the storm peace seemed to cover Heronac. Sabine gardened with Pere Anselme, and listened to his kindly, shrewd common sense, and then they read poetry in the afternoons when tea was over. They read Beranger, Francois Villon, Victor Hugo, and every now and then they even dashed into de Musset!

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

Every morning there came an adoring letter from Henry, in which he never said too much or too little, but everything that could excite her cultivated intelligence and refresh her soul. In all the after years of her life, whatever might befall her, these letters of Henry's would have a lasting influence upon her. They polished and moulded her taste; and put her on her mettle to answer them, and gradually they grew to be an absorbing interest. He selected the books she was to read, and sent her boxes of them. It had been agreed before he left that he would not return to Heronac for some time; but that in late October, when the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater got back to Paris, that if they could be persuaded to come to London, Sabine would accompany them, and make the acquaintance of Henry's mother and some of his family--who would be in ignorance of there being any tie between them, and the whole thing could be 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, whatever you were like, if she knew that you were my choice--and for the same reason my sisters would perhaps find fault with you; so I want you to make 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 Pere Anselme had only one moment of doubt again, just the last morning before his Dame d'Heronac left for Paris when October had come.

It was raining hard, and he found her in the great sitting-room with a legal-looking doc.u.ment in her hand. Her face was very pale, and lying on the 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, and sympathized.

But his lady was too restless to begin their reading, and stole from window 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 Heronac."

"G.o.d forbid," exclaimed the priest, aghast. "If you left us, the sun no more would seem to shine."

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

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

"Remember always, my daughter, that le bon Dieu settles things for us mortals if we leave it all to Him--but if we take the helm in the direction of our own affairs, it may be He will let circ.u.mstance draw us into rough waters. In that case, the only thing for us is to be true to our 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--and that 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 good G.o.d is always merciful. What you must be is true to yourself. _Pax vobisc.u.m_," and he placed his hand upon her head.

But, for once, Sabine lost control of her emotions and, bursting into a pa.s.sion of tears, she rushed from the room.

"Alas! all is well?" said the priest, half aloud, and then he knelt by the window and prayed fervently--without telling his beads.

But, at breakfast, Sabine's eyes were dry again, and she seemed quite calm. She, too, had held communion with herself, and her will had once more resumed the mastery. This should be the last exhibition of weakness--and the last feeling of weakness; and as she would suppress the outward signs, so she would crush the inner emotion. All life looked smiling. She was young, healthy and rich. She had inspired the devoted love of a good and great man, whose position would give scope for her ambitions, whose intellect was a source of pleasure and joy to her, and whose tenderness would smooth all her path. What right had she to have even a crumpled rose leaf! None in the world.

She must get accustomed even to hearing of Michael, and perhaps to meeting him again face to face, since Henry was never to know--or, at least, not for years perhaps, when she had been so long happily married that the knowledge would create no jar. And at all events, he need not know--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 to London, where she had never been, except to pa.s.s through that once long ago.

The Pere Anselme came to the station with her, and as he closed the door of the reserved carriage she was in, he said:

"Blessings be upon your head, my child. And, whatever comes, may the good G.o.d direct you into peace."

Then he turned upon his heel, his black eyes dim--for the autumn months would be long with only Madame Imogen for companion, beside his flock--and the sea.

Michael had got back from Paris utterly disgusted with life, sick with himself. Bitterly resentful against fate for creating such a tangled skein, and dangling happiness in front of him only to s.n.a.t.c.h it away again. He went up to Arranstoun and tried to play his part in the rejoicings at his return. He opened the house, engaged a full staff of servants, and filled it with guests. He shot with frantic eagerness for one week, and then with indifference the next. Whatever he may have done wrong in his life, his punishment had come. He had naturally an iron will, and when he began to use it to calm his emotions, a better state of things might set in, but for the time being he was just drifting, and sorrow was his friend.