OSTENDE had begun to bore Michael Arranstoun intolerably—he had lamed his best pony and Miss Daisy Van der Horn was getting on his nerves. At Ostende she, to use one of her own expressions, "was not the only pebble on the beach." His nerves had had a good deal of exercise among that exceedingly pleasure-loving, frolicsome crew.
Five years in the wilds had not changed him much, except to add to his annoying charm. He was more absolutely dare-devil and sure of himself and careless of all else than ever. Miss Daisy Van der Horn—and a number of Clarices and Germaines and Lolos—were "just crazy" about him. And they mattered to him not a single straw. He laughed—and kissed them when he felt inclined, and then when all had begun to weary him he rode away—or rather sent his polo ponies back to England and got into the express for Paris, expecting there to find Henry Fordyce returned from Carlsbad—only to hear that he had just started in his motor for Brittany, and by that evening would have arrived at Havre.
Michael had nothing special to do and so followed him there at once by train, coming upon him just as he was closing his letter to Mrs. Howard. Then in his usual whirlwind way, which must be obeyed—he had persuaded Henry to take him on with him, inwardly against that astute politician's, but diffident lover's will.
"Look here, Michael," he had said, "I am going to see the lady of my heart—you know, and you will probably be in the way!"
"Not a bit, old boy—I'll play the helpful friend and spin things along. What's she like?"
Here Lord Fordyce gave a guarded description—but with the enthusiasm of a man who is no longer quite young but madly in love.
"Good Lord!" whistled Michael. "She must be a daisy! And when are you going to be married, old man? I'll lend you Arranstoun for the honeymoon—damned good place for a honeymoon—" and then he stopped short suddenly and laughed with a strange regretful sound in his mirth.
"Alas!" Henry sighed. "I cannot say—she is an American, you know, and has been married to a brute of her own nation out west, whom she has to get perfectly free of before I can have the honor to call her mine."
"Whew!"
"Yes, it is a dreadful bore having to wait. They arrange divorces wonderfully well over there though it is only a question of a few months, I suppose—but she would be worth waiting for for ten years——"
"It is simply glorious to hear you raving so, old bird!" Michael laughed. "When I think of the lectures you used to give me about women—mere recreations for a man's leisure moments, I think you called them, and not to be taken seriously in a man's real life!"
"I have completely changed my opinions," Lord Fordyce announced, rather nettled. "So would any man if he knew Mrs. Howard."
"Howard?" asked Michael—"but anyone can be a Talbot or a Howard or a Cavendish out there—so she is a Mrs. Howard, is she? I wonder who the husband was—I had a rascally cousin of that name who went to Arizona—perhaps she married him."
"Her husband was an American," Henry rejoined, "and is in a madhouse or an institution for inebriates, I believe."
"Well, I wish you all joy, Henry, I do, indeed—and I promise you I will do all I can to help you through with it. I won't retaliate for your thundering niggardness five years ago, when you would not even be my best man, do you remember?"
"This is quite different, my dear boy," Lord Fordyce assured him with dignity. "You were going to do what I thought a most casual thing, just for your own ends, but I—Michael— " and his cultivated voice vibrated with feeling—"I love this woman as I never thought I should love anything on God's earth."
"Then here's to you!" said Mr. Arranstoun, and ringing the bell for the waiter, ordered a pint of champagne to drink his friend's health.
So they had started in the motor after breakfast next day and that night slept at St. Malo— getting to Héronac without adventure the following afternoon.
When no telegram was awaiting Lord Fordyce at —— where they breakfasted, he remarked to Michael:
"She does not mind your coming—or she would have wired—I wish I were as indifferent about it—Michael—" and Henry stammered a little—"you'll promise me as a friend— you will not look into her eyes with your confounded blue ones and try to cut me out."
For some reason this appeal touched something in Michael's heart, his voice was full of cordiality and his blue bold eyes swam with kindly affection as he answered:
"I'm not a beast, Henry—and I don't want every woman I see—and anyone you fancied would in any case be sacred to me," and he held out his hand. "Give you my word as I told you before, I'll not only promise you on my honor that I'll not cut in myself, but I'll do everything I can to help you, old man," then he laughed to hide the seriousness of his feeling—"even to lending Arranstoun for the honeymoon."
So they grasped hands and sealed the bargain and got into the motor and went on their way.
The first view of Héronac had enchanted them both, it was indeed a unique place.
"What taste!" Henry had said. "Fancy a young woman knowing and seeing at once the possibilities of such a place!"
"It is as grim as Arranstoun and nearly as old," Michael exclaimed. "I am glad we came."
Sabine shrank back into Berthe's little kitchen and signalled to her not to make known the hostess' presence—but to let the gentlemen drive over the causeway bridge to the courtyard—where they would be told by Nicholas that she was in the garden, and would probably be brought there to her by Madame Imogen who would have welcomed them.
Her firm will forced her to pull herself together and decide what to do when they should come face to face. To be totally unconcerned was the best thing—to look and act as though Michael Arranstoun were indeed a perfect stranger introduced to her for the first time in her life. It would take him some moments to be certain that she was Sabine—his wife—and he would then not be likely to make a scene before Henry—and when the moment for plain speaking came, she would sternly demand to be set free. She had kept silence to Henry as to who her husband really was—for no reason except that the whole subject disturbed her greatly—the very mention of Michael's name or the thought of him always filling her with wild and mixed emotions. She had schooled herself in the years that had gone by since their parting, into absolutely banishing his memory every time it recurred. She had a vague feeling that she must be free of him, and safe before she could even pronounce his name to Lord Fordyce, who naturally must know eventually. There was an unaccountable and not understood fear in her—fear that in the discussion which must arise if she spoke of who her husband was to Henry, that something might transpire, or that she might hear something which would reawaken certain emotions, and weaken her determination to break the even empty bond with Michael. And now she had seen him again with her mortal eyes, and she knew that she was trembling and tingling with a mad sensation of she knew not what—hatred and revulsion she hoped! but was only sure of one aspect of it—that of wild excitement.
No one—not a single soul—neither Simone—Madame Imogen—nor Père Anselme himself must be allowed to see that she recognized Michael—her belief that her countrywomen were fine actresses should stand her in good stead, and enable her to play this part of unconsciousness to perfection. She would conquer herself—and she stamped her little foot there in the high turret bower in the garden where she had retired. Its windows opened straight out to the sea and she often had tea there. There would be no use in all her prayers for calm and poise if they should desert her now in this great crisis of her life. She was bound to Henry by her promised word, given of her own free will— and she meant to keep it, and do everything in her power to make herself free. She was an extremely honest person, honest even with herself, and she realized that either her own weakness or indecision, or some other motive had forced her to give a definite answer to Lord Fordyce—and that he was too fine a character to be played with and tossed about because of her moods. She had mastered every sign of emotion by the time Madame Imogen's comfortable figure, accompanied by the two men, could be seen advancing in the distance. She rose with the gracious smile of a hostess and held out her hand— pleased surprise upon her face.
"So you have come! but earlier than I thought," and she shook hands with Henry, and then turned to his friend without the slightest embarrassment, as Lord Fordyce spoke his name.
"How do you do," she said politely. "You are both very welcome to Héronac."
Michael had merely seen a pretty outline of a young woman until they had got quite close and she had raised her head and lifted the shadow of her big garden sun-bonnet—and then he stiffened suddenly and grew very pale. He was a little behind the other two, and they observed nothing, but Sabine saw the change of color in his healthy handsome face, and the look of surprise and incredulity and puzzle which grew in his blue eyes.
"How do you do?" he murmured, and then pulled himself together and looked at her hard.
But she stood his scrutiny with perfect unconcern—even meeting his eye with a blank, agreeable want of recognition; while she made some ordinary remark about their journey. Then pointing to her basket:
"See—I was picking flowers for my sitting-room and I did not expect you for another hour—what a silent motor you must have that its noise did not penetrate here!"
Henry was so overcome with joy to see her, and that she should be so gracious and sweet—he said all sorts of nice things and walked by her side as they came down from the turret summer-house. She looked the picture of a fresh June rose as she carried her basket full of August flowers—phloxes and penstemons and a great bunch of late sweet peas. And Michael felt almost that he was staggering a little as he followed with Madame Imogen, the shock had been so great.
Was it really Sabine—his wife!—or could she have a double in the world. Maddening uncertainty was his portion. He must know, he must be certain—and if she were his wife—what then? What did it mean? He could not claim her—she was engaged to Henry, his friend—to whom he had given his word of honor that he would help as much as he could. It was no wonder that he answered Madame Imogen's prattle, crisp and American and amusing though it was, quite at random—his whole attention being upon the pair in front.
Sabine also found that she was not hearing a word Henry said, but that the wildest excitement which she had ever known was coursing through her blood. At last she did catch that he was telling her that never had she been more beautiful or had brighter eyes.
"This place must suit you even better than Carlsbad," he said.
She answered laughingly and led the way toward the gate and so across the causeway and on into her own sitting-room where they would find tea. She supposed afterwards that she had talked sensibly, but never had any recollection of what she had said.
The room was looking singularly beautiful with the wonderful coloring of the splendid curtains, and the tapestry and dark wood. And it was a homely place, too, with quantities of book-cases and comfortable chairs for all its vast size. Michael thought there was a faint look of his own room at Arranstoun—and he joined the two who had advanced to one of the huge embrasures of the windows where the tea table was laid—here there were velvet-covered window seats where one could lounge and gaze out at the sea.
"What an exquisite place!" he exclaimed. "It reminds me of Arranstoun, does it not you, Henry?—although that is not near the sea."
The color deepened in Sabine's cheeks—had she unconsciously made it resemble that place? She did not know, and the suggestion struck her with surprise.
Michael had recognized her of course, she saw that, but he was a gentleman and intended to play the game. That was an immense relief. She could allow herself to look at him critically now—not with just the cursory glance she had bestowed upon Henry's friend at first—for he had turned and was talking to Madame Imogen whom Sabine had signed to pour out the tea—she was not sure if her own hand might not have shaken a little and it were wiser to take no risks.
He was horribly good-looking—that jumped to the eye—and with a careless, indifferent grace—five years had only matured and increased his attractions. He had "it"— manifesting in every part of him and his atmosphere! A magnetism, a hateful, odious power which she felt, and fiercely resented. He had recovered completely from whatever shock he had felt upon seeing her it would seem! for his face looked absolutely unconcerned now and perfectly at ease.
She called all her forces together and played the part of the radiant, well-mannered hostess, being even extra sweet and charming to Henry, who was in the seventh heaven in consequence. The dreaded introduction of his too-fascinating friend at Héronac had passed off well and his adored lady did not seem to be taking any notice of him.
Michael did not seek by word or look to engage her in personal conversation; if he had really been a stranger who did not even find his hostess fair, he could not have been more casual or less impressed. And all the while his pulses were bounding and he was growing more and more filled with astonishment and emotion.
At last a thought came. Why, of course! Henry had told her he was coming, so she had expected the meeting and had had time to school herself to act! But this straw was not long vouchsafed him, and then stupefaction set in, for Henry chanced to say:
"You must forgive me for not having time to write you my friend's name in my postscript, the post was off that minute—you had to take him on trust!"
"I do not know that I even caught it just now!" Sabine returned archly. "Mr. ——?"
And Henry, engaged for a moment taking a second cup of tea from Madame Imogen's fat hand, Michael answered for him, looking straight into her eyes:
"Michael Howard Arranstoun of Arranstoun over the border in Scotland—like Gretna Green."
"How romantic that sounds," Madame Imogen chimed in. "Why, it's a name fit for a stage play I do think. A party of my friends visited that very castle only last fall. Mrs. Howard dear, it's as well known as the Trossachs to investigators of the antique!"
"Wonderfully interesting!" Sabine remarked blandly—putting more sugar in her tea—at which Michael's eyebrows raised themselves in a whimsical way—back had rushed to him the recollection that on the only occasion they had ever drunk tea together before, she had said that she liked "lumps and lumps of it!"
"You probably know England?" he hazarded politely.
"Very little. I was once there for a month when I was a child; we went to see Windermere and the Lakes."
"You got no further north? That was a pity, our country is most beautiful—but it is not too late—you may go there yet some day."
"Who knows?" and she laughed gaily—she had to allow herself some outlet, she felt she would otherwise have screamed.
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 assertion 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 passage 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 Curé, Père 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 surreptitiously kissed his hostess' hand—and a sudden blinding, unreasoning rage shook him as he stalked on to his allotted apartment.