She saw that she had created interest in his eyes, and rejoiced. That crisis had pa.s.sed! and it would be safe to go on.

"I shall not get him to kiss me to-night, after all," she decided to herself. "If I did, he would probably feel annoyed to-morrow, with some ridiculous sense of a too sudden disloyalty to Sabine's memory--and he might be huffed with himself, too, thinking he had given way; it might wound his vanity. I shall just draw him right out and make him want to kiss me, but not consciously--and then it will be safe when he is at that pitch to let him go off to bed."

This plan she proceeded to put into practice. She exploited the subject they had been talking of to its length, and aroused a sharp discussion and argument--while she took care to place herself in the most alluring att.i.tudes as close to Henry as she possibly could be, while maintaining a basis of frank friendship, and then she changed the current by getting him to explain to her exactly what he had done about Michael, and how they should arrange the meeting between the two, putting into her eagerness all the sparkle that she would have used in collaborating with him over the placing of the presents upon a Christmas tree--until, at last, Henry began to take some sort of pride in the thing itself.

"I want you to let Sabine think you are just going to forgive her for her deception, but intend her to keep her word to you; and then you can take Mr. Arranstoun up to her sitting-room when you have brought him from the Pere Anselme's--and just push him in and let them explain matters themselves. Won't it be a moment for them both!"

Henry writhed.

"Yes," he gasped, "a great moment."

"And you are not going to care one bit, Henry," Moravia went on, with authority. "I tell you, you are not."

Then, having made all clear as to their joint action upon the morrow, she spent the last half hour before they parted in instilling into his spirit every sort of comfort and subtle flattery until, when the clock struck eleven, Henry felt a sense of regret that he must say good-night.

By this time, her head was within a few inches of his shoulder, and her pretty eyes were gazing into his with the adoring affection of a child.

"You are an absolute darling, Moravia," he murmured, with some emotion, "the kindest woman in this world," and he bent and kissed her hair.

She showed no surprise--to take the caress naturally would, she felt, leave him with the pleasure of it, and arouse no disturbing a.n.a.lyzations in his mind as to its meaning.

"Now you have got to go right off to your little bed," she said, in a matter of fact 'mother' tone, "and I should just like to come and tuck you up, and turn your light out--but as I can't, you'll promise me you will do it yourself at once--and close those eyes and go to sleep." Here she permitted herself softly to shut his lids with her smooth fingers.

Henry felt a delicious sense of comfort and peace creeping over him--he knew he did not wish to leave her--but he got up and took both her hands.

"Good-night, you sweet lady," he said. "You will never know how your kind heart has helped me to-night, nor can I express my grat.i.tude for your spontaneous sympathy," with which he kissed the fair hands, and went regretfully toward the door.

Moravia thought this the right moment to show a little further sentiment.

"Good-night, Henry," she faltered. "It has been rather heaven for me--but I don't think I'll let you dine up here alone with me again--it--it might make my heart ache, too." And then she dexterously glided to the door of her bed-room and slipped in, shutting it softly.

And Henry found himself alone, with some new fire running in his veins.

When Moravia, listening, heard his footsteps going down the pa.s.sage, she clasped her hands in glee.

"I 'shall never know'! 'My spontaneous sympathy'!--Oh! the darling, innocent babe! But I've won the game. He will belong to me now--and I shall make him happy. Ouida was most certainly right when she said, 'Men are not vicious; they are but children.'"

CHAPTER XXIII

Very early on Christmas morning, Lord Fordyce went down to the _presbytere_ and walked with the Pere Anselme on his way to Ma.s.s. He had come to a conclusion during the night. The worthy priest would be the more fitting person to see Michael than he, himself; he felt he could well leave all explanations in those able hands--and then, when his old friend knew everything, he, Henry, would meet him and bring him to the Chateau of Heronac, and so to Sabine.

The Pere Anselme was quite willing to undertake this mission; he would have returned to his breakfast by then and would await Michael's arrival, he told Henry. Michael would come from the station, twenty kilometers away, in Henry's motor.

The wind had got up, and a gloriously rough sea beat itself against the rocks. The thundering surf seemed some comfort to Henry. He was unconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had ever imagined that he could feel after such a blow. Moravia's maneuvrings and sweet sympathy had been most effective, and Henry had fallen asleep while her spell was still upon him--and only awakened after several hours of refreshing slumber. Then it was he decided upon the plan, which he put into execution as soon as daylight came. Now he left the old priest at the church door and strode away along the rough coast road, battling with the wind and trying to conquer his thoughts.

He was following Moravia's advice, and replacing each one of pain as it came with one of pleasure--and the cold air exhilarated his blood.

Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxiety and speculation. What had happened? There was no clue in Henry's dry words in the telegram. Had there been some disaster? Was Henry violently angry with him? What would their meeting bring? He had come in to the Ritz from a dinner party, and had got the telegram just in time to rush straight to the station with a hastily-packed bag, and get into an almost-moving train, and all night long he had wondered and wondered, as he sat in the corner of his carriage. But whatever had happened was a relief--it produced action. He had no longer just to try to kill time and stifle thought; he could do something for good or ill.

It seemed as though he would never arrive, as the hours wore on and dawn faded into daylight. Then, at last, the crawling engine drew up at his destination, and he got out and recognized Henry's chauffeur waiting for him on the platform. The swift rush through the cold air refreshed him, and took away the fatigue of the long night--and soon they had drawn up at the door of the _presbytere_, and he found himself being shown by the priest's ancient housekeeper into the spotlessly clean parlor.

The Pere Anselme joined him in a moment, and they silently shook hands.

"You are not aware, sir, why you have been sent for, I suppose?" the priest asked, with his mild courtesy. "Pray be seated, there by the stove, and I will endeavor to enlighten you."

Michael sat down.

"Please tell me everything," he said.

The Pere Anselme spread out his thin hands toward the warmth of the china, while he remained standing opposite his visitor.

"The good G.o.d at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that our Dame d'Heronac has not been altogether happy of late--and upon my suggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what I believe to be the truth--which you, sir, can corroborate--namely, that you are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, but from a motive of loyalty to your friend."

"That is the case," a.s.sented Michael quietly, a sudden great joy in his heart.

The priest was silent, so he went on:

"And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?--release her and give her back to me--or what, _mon Pere_?"

"Is it necessary to ask?" and Pere Anselme lifted questioning and almost whimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is a gentleman!"

"Yes, I know that--but it must mean the most awful suffering to him--poor, dear old Henry--Is he quite knocked out?"

"The good G.o.d tries no one beyond his strength--he will find consolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer you the hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"--here the old man made a courtly bow--"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, you can take the road to the Chateau of Heronac, where you will find Lord Fordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to Madame Sabine. That is as he may think wisest--I believe she is quite unprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you are the best judge yourself."

"It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time, _mon Pere_."

"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves--since the good G.o.d has seen fit to restore you to happiness."

"I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?"

The old priest coughed slightly.

"I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine----"

Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly.

"No, indeed, I do not--I know I have been an unspeakable brute--I have not the grain of an excuse to offer--and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not, _mon Pere_?"

The Cure of Heronac sighed gently.

"Angels when they love, and demons when they hate--of an unbalance--but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them--to heaven or h.e.l.l."

Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Pere Anselme led the way without further words.