IN the morning before they left Héronac, Sabine's elderly maid, Simone, came to her with the face she always wore when her speech might contain any reference to the past. She had been with Sabine ever since the week after her marriage, and was a widow and a Parisian, with a kind and motherly heart.
"Will madame take the blue despatch-box with her as usual?" she asked.
Sabine hesitated for a second. She had never gone anywhere without it in all those five years—but now everything was changed. It might be wiser to leave it safely at Héronac. Then her eyes fell upon it, and a slight shudder came over her of the kind which people describe as "a goose walking over your grave."
No, she could not leave it behind.
"I will take it, Simone."
"As madame wishes," and the maid went on her way.
When Sabine had reached London late on that evening in the June of 1907 on her leaving Scotland she found, in response to the wire she had sent him from Edinburgh, Mr. Parsons waiting for her at the station, his astonishment as great as his perturbation.
Her words had been few; her young mind had been firmly made up in the train coming south. No one should ever know that there had been any deviation from the original plan she had laid out for herself. With a force of will marvellous in one of her tender years, she had controlled her extreme emotion, and except that she looked very pale and seemed very determined and quiet, there were no traces of the furnace through which she had passed, in which had perished all her old conceptions of existence, although as yet she realized nothing but that she wanted to go away and to be free and forget her tremors, and presently join Moravia.
The marriage had been perfectly legal, as the certificate showed, and Mr. Parsons, whatever his personal feelings about the matter were, knew that he had not the smallest control over her—and was bound to hand over to her her money to do with as she pleased.
She merely told him the facts—that the marriage had been only an arrangement to this end—Mr. Arranstoun having agreed before the ceremony that this should be so—and that she wanted to engage a good maid and go over to Paris as soon as possible, to see her friend the Princess Torniloni.
She had decided in the train that her methods with all who opposed her must be as they used to be with Sister Jeanne—a statement of her intentions, and then silence and no explanations. Sister Jeanne had given up all argument with her in her last year at the convent!
Mr. Parsons soon found that his words were falling upon deaf ears, and were perfectly useless. She had cut herself adrift from her aunt and uncle, whom she cordially disliked, leaving them a letter to tell them that as she was now her own mistress, she never meant to trouble them or Mr. Greenbank again, and she bid them adieu!
"It is not as if they had ever been the least kind to me," she did condescend to inform the lawyer. "They couldn't bear me really—Samuel, although he was such a poor creature, was far the best of them. Uncle was only wanting my money for him, and Aunt Jemima detested me, and only had me with her because Papa left in his will that she had to, or lose his legacy. You can't think what I've learned of their meannesses in the month I've know them!"
Thus Mr. Parsons had no further arguments to use—and felt that after seeing her safe to his own hotel that night, and helping to engage a suitable and responsible maid next day to travel with her, he could do no more.
The question of the name troubled him most, and he almost refused to agree that she should be known as Mrs. Howard.
"But I have told Mr. Arranstoun that I mean to be only that!" Sabine exclaimed, "and he didn't mind, and"—here her violet eyes flashed—"I will not be anything else—so there!"
Mr. Parsons shrugged his shoulders; she was impossible to deal with, and as he himself was obliged to return to America in the following week, he felt the only thing to do was to let her have her way. And so well did he guard his client's secret then and afterwards, that even Simone, though a shrewd Frenchwoman, had never known that her mistress' name was not really Howard. At the time of her being engaged she was just leaving an American lady from the far West whom Mr. Parsons knew of, and she was delighted to come as maid and almost chaperon to this sweet, but wilful young lady.
So they had gone to Paris together, to order clothes—such a joyous task—and to make herself forget those hours so terribly full of strange emotion was all which occupied Sabine's mind at this period. Other preoccupations came later; and it was then that she listened to Simone's suggestion of going to San Francisco. The maid knew it well, and there they spent several months in a quiet hotel. But they neither of them cared much to remember those days, and nothing would have ever induced Sabine to return thither. She thought of these things now, as Simone left the room with the blue case, but she put from her all disturbing remembrances on her journey to Paris, and rushed into Moravia's arms, who was waiting for her in her palatial apartment in the Avenue du Bois; they really loved one another, these two women, as few sisters do.
"Sabine, you darling!" the Princess cried, while Girolamo, kept up an hour later to welcome his god-mamma, screamed with joy.
"Now tell me everything, everything, pet!" Moravia demanded, as she poured out the tea. "Has the divorce been settled? How soon will you be free? When can you get married to this nice Englishman?"
"I don't exactly know, Morri—the law is such a strange thing; however, my—husband— has agreed and begun to take the necessary steps by requesting me to go back to him, which I have refused to do."
"You are looking perfectly splendid, dear. Having all that brain stimulation evidently suits you. Wasn't the visit of Lord Fordyce delightful in that romantic old castle? What did you do all the time? and what was the friend like?—you did not tell me."
Sabine stirred her tea.
"He only stayed one night—he was quite a nice creature—Mr. Arranstoun."
"Of the castle?" The Princess was thrilled. "Why, darling, he must be the one that they say is going to marry Daisy Van der Horn. He has got some matrimonial tangle like you have, and when he is through with it, Daisy is such dead nuts on him, they say she is certain to get him to marry her! Do tell me exactly what he is like—I am not over fond of Daisy, you know—but she is a splendid specimen of dash and vim."
"He is good-looking, Morri—and he has got 'it.'"
"I gathered that from all that I have heard of him here. Old Miss Buskin, Daisy's aunt, you remember the old horror, says he is 'just too sweet,' and 'that sassy'—you know her frightfully vulgar way of speaking!—that even she is 'afraid to be alone in the room with him!'"
"I dare say—he—looked like that—he ought to suit Daisy," and then Sabine felt she had been spiteful and tried to divert matters by asking where Mr. Cloudwater was.
"Papa will be in in a moment. He has been dying for you to come back." But the Princess had not done with Mr. Arranstoun yet. The Van der Horn coterie had rung with his exploits on her return from Italy, and the lurid picture had interested her deeply.
"I do wish I had been at Héronac, Sabine, I would love to have seen that young man.
Daisy's aunt told me he was wild about her niece, and at one moment she thought everything was settled—it must have been after he came back from Brittany—and then he went off to England—probably he does not like to speak out until he is free."
Sabine felt that strange sensation she had experienced once before, of heart sinking—and then, furious with herself, she mastered it and became more determined than ever to carry out her intention of growing accustomed to hearing of, and talking about Michael calmly.
"You are sure to meet him in England," she said; "he is a great friend of Henry's."
But afterwards, when she was alone resting in her cosy room before dinner, she deliberately pulled the blue despatch-box toward her and looked at some of its contents, while tears gathered in her eyes, which even the cynical thoughts which she was calling to her aid could not quite suppress. Would things have been different if she had been able to send Michael the letter which she had written to him in the September of 1907? The letter she had asked Mr. Parsons, who was again in London, to have delivered to him, into his hand—and which came back to her in Paris with the information from the old lawyer that Mr. Arranstoun had left England for the wilds of China and Tibet, and might not get any letters for more than a year. She remembered how that night she had cried herself to sleep with misery, and with a growing regret at having left Michael, and a pitiful longing just to be clasped once more in his strong arms and comforted. Oh! the hateful wretched memories! To have gone off at once to China like that proved his callousness and indifference. Then, in spite of herself, her thoughts would review all he had said to her on that morning in the garden. No—there had not been one word of meaning, not even any suggestion of regret that she was practically engaged to Henry. There had been some faint allusion to people being fools—and brutes when young, but not that they would wish to repair the faults which they had committed then. The whole thing was plain—he had never really cared an atom for her. He had been only affected by passion, even on her wedding night when he was pouring love vows into her startled ears.
"He was probably horribly surprised to come upon me at Héronac," her thoughts now ran, "and then just sampled me—and went off as soon as he could—back to Daisy in Paris!"
Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears.
Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun. She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption in Henry, and her complete indifference to himself. His vanity would be wounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger. That would be her only revenge—and what a paltry one! She felt that— and was ashamed of herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love is wounded and the passion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabine was no better nor worse than any other woman probably. Once more she made resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael either good or bad. It was perfectly sickening—the humiliation and degradation of his so frequently coming into her mind. She pulled the despatch-box nearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope a brown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire.
"There! that is done with—ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!"
And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone and began to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks.
They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them at Charing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel.
How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked! He was as ever a soothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing in deciding to link her life with his.
But it was not so with Moravia. Lord Fordyce had attracted her from the moment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again had boiled up; and alas! Moravia—beautiful young widow and Princess—found herself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeply interested in the declared lover of her friend. Henry for her had every charm. He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with that well-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabine had always said irritated her so.
It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminine instinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all. If she had felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it was fate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actually to feel unhappy. They were continually surrounded with friends, and at every meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delight in. People were just beginning to come back to London, and they had amusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry's family, an intelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them. The Princess had very seldom been in London before—and quite understood that, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoilt all her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn's pet expressions, "terribly amused." Sabine, as the days wore on, and she was under Henry's influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grew happy, and heard Michael's name without a tremor.
For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much she would like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris.
"I had a letter from him this morning," Lord Fordyce said. "He is shooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Friday night. I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what you think of him. He really is a very charming fellow, for all his recklessness—and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you of him are overdrawn."
"Oh, I hope not!" Moravia laughed. "Do not disillusion me!" Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who had wired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Friday and go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would find another occasion to present his friend.
To him, Henry, this week in late October had been one of almost unalloyed happiness— although he could have dispensed with the continuous parties; still, he felt the Princess had to be amused, and perhaps in a larger company he got more chance of speaking to his beloved alone.
The position of a man nearly always affects women—and the great and unmistakable prestige, which it was plain to be seen Henry possessed, had added to his charm in both Moravia and Sabine's eyes. It gratified Sabine's vanity. She knew this, she was quite cognizant of the fact that it pleased her. She felt glad and proud that she should occupy so exalted a place in the world's eyes, as she would do as his wife. Surely all the great duties and interests of that position would make life very fair. It would be such peace and relief when the divorce proceedings would come on and be finished with—a much less tiresome affair in Scotland, she had heard, than in an English court.
When Michael Arranstoun got Henry's wire asking him to dine, he laughed bitterly. There was something so cynically entertaining in the idea of the whole situation! He was being asked out to meet the wife whom he was madly in love with, and was preparing to divorce for desertion, so that she might marry the giver of the invitation!
He was tempted to accept for a second or two, the desire to see her again was growing almost more than he could bear; but at this period he had still strength to refuse—and then, as the days went on, it seemed that nothing gave him any pleasure, and that constantly and incessantly his thoughts turned to one subject. If there had been no friendship or honor mixed up in the thing, nothing would have been simpler than to sit down and write to Henry telling him plainly that Sabine was his wife—and that she must choose between them. But then he remembered that, apart from all friendship, Sabine had already plainly expressed her choice, and that he had absolutely no right to hold her in any way since he had given her permission all those years ago to make what she chose of her life. He had not yet instructed his lawyers to begin actual proceedings—he was in a furnace of indecision and unrest. He would like just somehow to get Sabine to Arranstoun first—then, if after that she still plainly showed that she loved Henry, he would make himself go ahead with the freedom scheme; but if he commenced actual proceedings now, by no possibility could she come to Arranstoun—and this idea—to get her to Arranstoun, began to be an obsession. Just in proportion as his nature was wild and rebellious, so the mad longing grew and grew in him to induce her to come once more into his house.
And it would seem that fate at first intended to assist him in this, for on the second of November the party went up North to stay with Rose Forster, Henry's sister, at Ebbsworth for a great ball she was giving for a newly married niece.