She came nearer, and with hasty fingers put the flowers into his b.u.t.tonhole.

The temptation was too great for Henry. He put his arm round her and drew 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, and he was conscious that, as he clasped her close, a repressed shudder ran through her whole frame.

With a little cry of anguish he put her from him, and searched with miserable eyes for some message in her face. But her lids were lowered and 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. "Only that I am very foolish and silly, and I do not believe I like caresses--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 with me until I learn to--understand."

Of course he would be patient, he a.s.sured her, and asked her to forgive him if he had been brusque, his refined voice full of adoring contrition. He caught at any gossamer thread to stifle the obvious thought that if she loved him even ever so little he would not have to accustom her to caresses; she would long ago have been willing to learn all of their meanings in his arms!--and this was only the second time during their acquaintance that she had even let him kiss her!

But of her own free will she now came and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Henry," she pleaded, "I am not really as I know you think I am--a gentle and loving woman. There are all sorts of fierce sides in my character which you have not an idea of, and I am only beginning to guess at them myself. I do not know that I shall ever be able to make you happy. I am sure I shall not unless you will be contented with very little."

"The smallest tip of your finger is more precious to me than all the world, darling!" he protested with heat. "I will be patient. I will be anything you wish. I will not even touch you again until you give me leave. Oh! I adore you so--Sabine, I will bear anything if only you do not mean that you want to send me away."

The anguish and fond worship in his face wrung her heart. She started from him and then, returning, held out her arms, while she cried with a pitiful 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 I feel--Henry, you said you would make me forget!"

He encircled her with his arm and led her to a sofa, murmuring every vow of pa.s.sionate love; and here he sat by her and kissed her and caressed her to his heart's content, while she remained apparently pa.s.sive, but still as white as the violets in her dress, and inwardly she could hardly keep from screaming, the torture of it was so great. At last she could bear no more, but disengaging herself from his arms she slipped on to the floor, and there sat upon a low footstool, with her back to the fire, shivering as though with icy cold.

Lord Fordyce's instincts were too fine not to realize something of the meaning of this scene. Although not greatly learned in the ways of women, he had kissed them often before in his life, and none had received his caresses like that. But since she did not repulse him, he must not despair. She perhaps was, as she said, unused to fond dalliance, and he must be more controlled, and wait. So with an inward sense of pain and chill in his heart, he set himself to divert her otherwise, talking of the books which they both loved, and so at last, when Nicholas announced that dejeuner was ready, some color and animation had come back to her face.

But when she was alone in her room she looked out of the high window and pa.s.sionately threw up her arms.

"I cannot bear it again!" she wailed fiercely. "I feel an utterly degraded wretch."

At breakfast the Pere Anselme watched her intently while he kept his aloof air. He felt that something extra had disturbed her. He was to stay in the house with them on Christmas night, because it was so cold for him to return to his home after dinner, and Sabine could not possibly spare him; she a.s.sured him he must be with them at every meal.

His wit was so apt, and with Madame Imogen's aid he kept the ball rolling as merrily as he could. But he, no less than Henry, was conscious that all was not well.

And afterwards, as he went towards the village, he communed with himself, his kind heart torn with the deep-seated look of resignation in the eyes of his Dame d'Heronac.

"She is too young to be made to suffer it," he said, half aloud. "The good G.o.d cannot ask so much, as a price for wilfulness; and if this man has grown as distasteful to her as her face seems to suggest, nothing but misery could come from their dual life." It was all very cruel to the Englishman, no doubt, but where was the wisdom of letting two people suffer? Surely it was better to let only one pay the stakes, and if this thing went on, both would have equal unhappiness, and be tied together as two animals in a menagerie cage.

No gentleman should accept such a sacrifice. If the Lord Fordyce did not realize for himself that something had changed things, it must be that he, Gaston d'Heronac, the Pere Anselme, must intervene. It might be very fine and n.o.ble to stick to one's word, but it became quixotic if to do so could only bring misery to oneself and one's mate!

The good priest stalked on to his _presbytere_, and then to his church, to see that all should be ready for _reveillon_ that night, and he was returning to the chateau 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 commission to their little town directly they had all left the dining-room. Thus Henry was alone.

He greeted the Pere Anselme gladly. The old priest's cultivated mind was to him always a source of delight.

So he turned back and walked with him into the garden and along by the sea wall, instead of across the causeway and to the house. This was the doing of the Pere Anselme, for he felt now might be his time.

Henry had been growing more and more troubled while he had been out by himself. He could not disguise the fact that there was some great change in Sabine, and now his anxious mood craved sympathy and counsel from this her great friend.

"Madame Howard does not look quite well, Father," he remarked, after they had pulled some modern philosophies to pieces, and there had been a pause. "She is so nervous--what is the cause of it, do you know? Perhaps this 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 Pere Anselme drew closer his old black cloak. "There are other and stronger causes for the state in which we find the Dame Sabine."

Henry peered into his face anxiously in the gray light--it was four o'clock, the day would soon be gone. He knew that these words contained ominous meaning, and his voice was rather unsteady as he asked:

"What are the reasons, Father? Please tell me if you are at liberty to do so. To me the welfare of this dear lady is all that matters in life."

The Cure of Heronac cleared his throat, and then he said gently:

"I spoke once before to you about the cinders and as to whether or no they were still red. That is what causes her to be restless--she has found that they are yet alight."

Lord Fordyce was a brave man, but he grew very pale. It seemed that suddenly all the fears which his heart had sheltered, though would not own as facts, were rising before him like giant skeletons, concrete and distinct.

"But the divorce is going well!" he exclaimed a little pa.s.sionately, his hurt was so great. "She told me so last night; she will be free some time 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 ask it is for you to demand of yourself whether you will accept her sacrifice."

"Sacrifice! I would never dream of any sacrifice. It is unthinkable, Father!"

Anguish now distraught Henry's soul; he stopped in his walk and looked full at the priest, his fine, distinguished face working with suffering.

The Pere Anselme thought to himself that he would have done very well for the model of a martyr of old. It distressed him deeply to see his pain and to know that there would be more to come.

"Her happiness is all that I care for--surely you know this--but what has caused this change? Has she seen her husband again?--I----" Here Henry stopped, a sense of stupefaction set in. What could it all mean?

"We have never spoken upon the matter," the priest answered him. "I cannot say, but I think--yes, she has certainly come under his influence again. Have you never searched in your mind, Monsieur, to ask yourself who this husband could be?"

"No--! How should I have done so? I have never been in America in my life." And then Henry's haggard eyes caught a look in the old priest's face. "My G.o.d!" he cried, agony in his voice, "you would suggest that it is some one I may know!"

"I suggest nothing, Monsieur. I make my own deductions from events. Will you not do the same?"

Henry covered his eyes with his hands. It seemed as though reason were slipping from him; and then, like a flash of lightning which cleared his brain, the reality struck him.

"It is Michael Arranstoun," he said with a moan.

"We know nothing for certain," proclaimed the Pere Anselme. "But the alteration began from this young man's visit. That is why I warned you to well ascertain the truth of her feelings before going further. I would have saved you pain."

Henry staggered to the wall of the summer-house and leant there. His face 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 of pity as he answered:

"We may both have made mistakes. You are more aware of the circ.u.mstances than I am. The Seigneur of Arranstoun is the only man she has seen here besides yourself. You perhaps know whom she met in England, or Paris?"