THE Père Anselme was uneasy. Very little escaped his observation, and he saw at tea that his much loved Dame d'Héronac 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 mass.
"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 père?" 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'Héronac 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 Curé of Héronac 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'Héronac, 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 Curé'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 God 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 Père 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——"
She was silent for a moment, while his tenderness seemed to be pouring balm upon her troubled spirit.
"My God!" 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 passionately 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 casement 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 reasserted 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 Héronac and of the heart of Henry Fordyce. Just as they were leaving the dining-room, Nicholas brought her a message from Père 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 passage, 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!"