A WHOLE month went by, and after the storm peace seemed to cover Héronac. Sabine gardened with Père Anselme, and listened to his kindly, shrewd common sense, and then they read poetry in the afternoons when tea was over. They read Béranger, François 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'Héronac, 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 Héronac 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 Père Anselme had only one moment of doubt again, just the last morning before his Dame d'Héronac left for Paris when October had come. It was raining hard, and he found her in the great sitting-room with a legal-looking document 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 Héronac."
"God 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 Père 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 circumstance 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 God is always merciful. What you must be is true to yourself. Pax vobiscum," and he placed his hand upon her head.
But, for once, Sabine lost control of her emotions and, bursting into a passion 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 pass through that once long ago.
The Père 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 God 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 snatch 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.
His suite at Arranstoun—which he had never seen since the day after his wedding, having gone up to London that very next night, and from there made all his arrangements for the China trip—gave him a shock—he who had nerves of steel—and into the chapel he loathed to go. His one consolation was that Binko, now seven years old, had not transferred his affection to Alexander Armstrong, with whom he had spent the time; but after an hour or two had rapturously appeared to remember his master, and now never, if he could help it, left his side.
Michael took to reading books—no habit of his youth!—although his shrewd mind had not left him in the usual plight of blank ignorance, which is often the portion of a splendid, young athlete leaving Eton! But now he studied subjects seriously, and the whys and wherefores of things; and he grew rather to enjoy the evenings alone, between the goings and comings of his parties, when, buried in a huge chair before his log fire, with only Binko's snorts for company, he could pore over some volume of interest. He studied his family records, too, getting all sorts of interesting documents out of his muniment room.
What a fierce, brutal lot they had always been! No wonder the chapel had to be so gloriously filled—and then there came to his memory the one little window which was still plain, and how he had told Sabine that he supposed it had been left for him to garnish—as an expiatory offering—the race being so full of rapine and sin!
Should he put the gorgeous glass in now—it was time. But a glass window could not prevent the punishment—since it had already fallen upon him, nor even alleviate the suffering.
He was staring straight in front of him at the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots', landing— it had been painted at about 1850, when romantic subjects of that sort were in vogue, and "the fellow in the blue doublet" was said, by the artist, to represent the celebrated Arranstoun of that time. The one who had killed a Moreton and stolen his wife. No doubt that is why his grandfather had bought it. He thought it looked very well over the secret door, and then he deliberately let himself picture how it had once fallen forward, and all the circumstances which had followed in consequence. He reconstructed every word he could remember of his and Sabine's conversation that afternoon. He repictured her innocent baby face—and from there on to the night of the wedding. He reviewed all his emotions in the chapel, and the strange exaltation which was upon him then—and the mad fire which awoke in his blood with his first kiss or of her fresh young lips when the vows were said. Every minute incident was burned into his memory until the cutting of the cake—after that it seemed to be a chaos of wild passion, and moments of extraordinary bliss. He suddenly could almost see her little head there unresisting on his breast, all tears and terror at last hushed to rest by his fond caresses—and then he started from his seat—the memory was too terribly sweet.
He had, of course, been the most frightful brute. Nothing could alter or redeem that fact; but when sleep came to them at length he had believed that he had made her forgive him, and that he could teach her to love him and have no regrets. Then the agony to wake and find her gone!
What made her go after all? How had she slipped from his arms without awakening him? If he had only heard her when she was stealing from the room, he could have reasoned with her, and even have again caught her and kissed her into obedience—but he had slept on.
He remembered all his emotions—rage at her daring to cross his will to begin with, and then the deep wound to his self-love. That is what had made him write the hard letter which forever put an end to their reunion.
"What a paltry, miserable, arrogant wretch I was then," he thought—"and how pitifully uncontrolled."
But all was now too late.
The next morning's post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, in which he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he had returned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied. The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness. He was utterly absorbed in his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed so peaceful and joyous, it was evident she must reciprocate. Well, Henry was worthy of her—but this in no way healed the hurt. Michael violently tore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in him again. He wanted to slay something; he almost wished his friend had been an enemy that he could have gone out and fought with him and reseized his bride. What matter that she should be unwilling—the Arranstoun brides had often been unwilling. She had been unwilling before, and he had crushed her resistance, and even made her eventually show him some acquiescence and content. He could certainly do it again, and with more chance of success, since she was a woman now and not a child, and would better understand emotions of love.
He stood there shaking with passion. What should he do? What step should he take? Then Binko, who had emerged from his basket, gave a tiny half-bark—he wanted to express his sympathy and excitement. If his beloved master was transported with rage, it was evidently the moment for him to show some feeling also, and to go and seize by the throat man or beast who had caused this tumult.
His round, faithful, adoring eyes were upturned, and every fat wrinkle quivered with love and readiness to obey the smallest command, while he snorted and slobbered with emotion. Something about him touched Michael, and made him stoop and seize him in his arms and roll the solid mass on the bed in rough, loving appreciation.
"You understand, old man!" he cried fondly. "You'd go for Henry or anyone—or hold her for me"—And then the passion died out of him, as the dog licked his hand. "But we have been brutes once too often, Binko, and now we'll have to pay the price. She belongs to Henry, who's behaved like a gentleman—not to us any more."
So he rang for his valet and went to his bath quietly, and thus ended the storm of that day.
And Henry Fordyce in London was awaiting the arrival of his well-beloved, who, with the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater, was due to be at the Ritz Hotel that evening, when they would dine all together and spend a time of delight.
And far away in Brittany, the Père Anselme read in his book of meditations: It is when the sky is clearest that the heaviest bolt falls—it would be well for all good Christians to be on the alert.
And chancing to look from his cottage window, he perceived that a heavy rain cloud had gathered over the Château of Héronac.