MEANWHILE the divorce affair went on apace. There was no defence, of course, and Michael's lawyers were clever and his own influence was great. So freedom would come before the end of term probably, if not early in the New Year, and Henry felt he might begin to ask his beloved one to name a date when he could call her his own, and endeavor to take every shadow from her life.
His letters all this month had been more than extra tender and devoted, each one showing that his whole desire was only for Sabine's welfare, and each one, as she read it, put a fresh stab into her heart and seemed like an extra fetter in the chain binding her to him.
She knew she was really the mainspring of his life and she could not, did not, dare to face what might be the consequence of her parting from him. Besides, the die was cast and she must have the courage to go through with it.
Mr. Parsons had let her know definitely that the bare fact of her name would appear in the papers, and nothing more; and at first the thought came to her that if it had made no impression upon Henry's memory, when he must have read it originally in the notice of the marriage, why should it strike him now? But this was too slender a thread to hang hope upon, and it would be wiser and better for them all if when Lord Fordyce came with Moravia and Girolamo and Mr. Cloudwater at Christmas, she told him the whole truth. The dread of this augmented day by day, until it became a nightmare and she had to use the whole force of her will to keep even an outward semblance of calm.
Thoughts of Michael she dismissed as well as she could, but she had passionate longings to go and take out the blue enamel locket from her despatch-box and look at it once more; she would not permit herself to indulge in this weakness, though. Her whole days were ruled with sternest discipline until she became quite thin, and the Père Anselme grew worried about her.
A fortnight went by; it was growing near to Christmastime—but the atmosphere of Héronac contained no peace, and one bleak afternoon the old priest paced the long walk in the garden with knitted brows. He did not feel altogether sure as to what was his duty. He was always on the side of leaving things in the hand of the good God, but it might be that he would be selected to be an instrument of fate, since he seemed the only detached person with any authority in the affair.
His Dame d'Héronac had tried hard to be natural and her old self, he could see that, but her taste in their reading had been over much directed to Heine, she having brought French translations of this poet's works back with her from Paris.
Twice also had she asked him to recite to her De Musset's "La Nuit de Décembre." He did not consider these as satisfactory symptoms. There was no question in his astute mind as to what was the general cause of his beloved lady's unrest. The change in her had begun to take place ever since the fatal visit of the two Englishmen. Herein lay matter for thought. For the very morning before their arrival she had been particularly bright and gay, telling him of her intended action in making arrangements to free herself from her empty marriage bonds, and apparently contemplating a new life with Lord Fordyce with satisfaction. Père Anselme was a great student of Voltaire and looked upon his tale of "Zadig" as one from which much benefit could be derived. And now he began to put the method of this citizen of Babylon into practice, never having heard of the immortal Sherlock Holmes.
The end of his cogitations directed upon this principle brought him two concrete facts.
Number one: That Sabine had been deeply affected by the presence of the second Englishman—the handsome and vital young man—and number two: That she was now certainly regretting that she was going to obtain her divorce. Further use of Zadig's deductive method produced the conviction that, as an abstract young man would be equally out of reach were she still bound to her husband—or married to Lord Fordyce— and could only be obtained were she divorced—some other reason for her distaste and evident depression about this latter state coming to her must be looked for, and could only be found in the supposition that the Seigneur of Arranstoun might be himself her husband! Why, then, this mystery? Why had not he and she told the truth? Zadig's counsel could not help him to unravel this point, and he continued to pace the walk with impatient sighs.
He was even more of a gentleman than of a priest, and therefore forbore to question Sabine directly, but that afternoon, with the intention of directing her mind into facing eventualities, he had talked of Lord Fordyce, and what would be the duties of her future position as his wife. Sabine replied without enthusiasm in her tones, while her words gave a picture of all that any woman's heart could desire:
"He is a very fine character, it would seem," the Père Anselme said. "And he loves you with a deep devotion."
Sabine clasped her hands suddenly, as though the thought gave her physical pain.
"He loves me too much, Father; no woman should be loved like that; it fills her with fear."
"Fear of what?"
"Fear of failing to come up to the standard of his ideal of her—fear of breaking his heart."
"I told him in the beginning it were wiser to be certain all cinders were cold before embarking upon fresh ties," Père Anselme remarked meditatively, "and he assured me that he would ascertain facts, and whether or no you felt he could make you happy."
"And he did," Sabine's voice was strained. "And I told him that he could—if he would help me to forget—and I gave him my word and let him—kiss me, Father—so I am bound to him irrevocably, as you can see."
"It would seem so."
There was a pause, and then the priest got up and held his thin brown hands to the blaze, his eyes averted from her while he spoke.
"You must look to the end, my daughter, and ask yourself whether or no you will be strong enough to play your part in the years which are coming—since, from what I can judge, the embers are not yet cold. Temptation will arm for you with increasing strength. What then?"
"I do—not know," Sabine whispered hardly aloud.
"It will be necessary to be quite sure, my daughter, before you again make vows."
And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when he intended what he had said to sink deeply into the heart of his listener.
But just as he was leaving after tea he drew the heavy curtains back from one of the great windows. All was inky darkness, and the roaring of the sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like the menacing voices of an angry crowd.
"The good God can calm even this rough water," he said. "It would be well that you ask for guidance, my child, and when it has come to you, hesitate no more."
Then, making his sign of blessing, he rapidly strode to the door, leaving the Dame d'Héronac crouched upon the velvet window-seat, peering out upon the waves.
And Michael, numb with misery and regret, was deciding to go to Paris for Christmas. The memories at Arranstoun he could not endure.
The great suffering that he was going through was having some effect upon his mind, refining him in all ways, forcing him to think and to reason out all problems of life. The great dreams which used to come to him sometimes when in Kashmire during solitary hours of watching for sport returned. He would surely do something vast with his life— when this awful pain should be past. What, he could not decide—but something which would take him out of himself. He did not think he could stay in England just at first after Sabine should have married Henry—the chances of running across her would be too great, since they both knew the same people.
Henry would read about the divorce and the name "Sabine Delburg" in the paper, too, and would then know everything, even if Sabine had not already informed him. But he almost thought she must have done so, because he had had no word lately from his old friend. Thus the time went on for all of them, and none but the priest felt any premonition that Christmas would certainly bring a climax in all of their fates.
Lord Fordyce had hardly ever spent this season away from his mother, who was a very old lady now, and deeply devoted to him; but the imperative desire to be near his adored overcame any other feeling, and he, with the Princess and her son and father, was due to arrive at Héronac on the day before Christmas Eve.
He ran across Michael at the Ritz the night before he left Paris. They were both dining with parties, and nodded across the room, and then afterwards in the hall had a few words.
"To-morrow I am going down to Héronac, Michael," Henry said. "Where do you intend to spend the festive season? Here, I suppose?"
"Yes, it is as good as anywhere," Michael returned. "I felt I could not stand the whole thing at Arranstoun. I have been away from England so long, I must get used to these old anniversaries again gradually. Here one is free."
They looked into each other's faces and Henry noticed that Michael had not quite got his old exuberant expression of the vivid joy of life—he was paler and even a little haggard, if so splendid a creature could look that!
"I suppose he has been going the pace over here," Henry thought, and wondered why Michael's manner should be a little constrained. Then they shook hands with their usual cordiality and said good-night. And Michael prepared to go on to a supper party, with a feeling of wild rebellion in his heart. The sight of his old friend and the knowledge that he was on his way to join Sabine drove him almost mad again.
"I suppose they will be formally engaged in the New Year. I wonder how my little girl is bearing it—if she is half as miserable as I am, God comfort her," he cried to himself; and then he felt he could not stand Miss Daisy Van der Horn, and getting into his motor he told the chauffeur to drive into the Bois instead of to the supper.
Here among the dark trees he could think. It was all perfectly impossible, and no happiness could possibly come to Henry either—unless he succeeded in consoling Sabine when she should be his wife. And this was perhaps the bitterest thought of all—that she should ever be consoled as Henry's wife!
Then the extreme strangeness of Henry's still being in ignorance of his and Sabine's relations struck him. She had evidently not yet had the courage to tell the truth, and so the thing would come as a shock—and what would happen then? Who could say? In any case, Henry could not feel he had not come up to the scratch. Would Sabine ever tell Henry the whole story? He felt sure she would not. But how could things be expected to go on with the years? It was all unthinkable now that it had come so close.
It was about five o'clock on the next afternoon that the Princess and her party arrived at Héronac. Sabine was waiting for them in the great hall, and greeted them with feverish delight, but Henry's worshipping eyes took in at once the fact that she was greatly changed. She made a tremendous fuss over Girolamo, for whom a most sumptuous tea had been prepared in his own nurseries, and Henry thought how sweet she was with children and how divinely happy they would be in the future, when they had some of their own!
But what had altered his beloved? Her face had lost its baby outline, it seemed, and her violet eyes were full of deeper shadows than even they had been in the first few days of their acquaintance at Carlsbad. He must find all this out for himself directly they could be alone.
This chance, however, did not seem likely to be vouchsafed to him, for on the plea of having such heaps to talk over with Moravia, Sabine accompanied that lady to her room and did not appear again until they were all assembled in the big salon for dinner, where Madame Imogen, who had returned the day before, was doing her best to add to the gaiety of the party by her jolly remarks.
The lady of Héronac had hardly been able to control herself as she waited for her guests' arrival and felt that to rush at Girolamo would be her only hope. For that morning the post had brought the news that the divorce would be granted by the end of January, and she would be free! She had felt very faint as she had read Mr. Parsons' letter. No matter how one might be expecting an axe to fall, when it does, the shock must seem immense.
Sabine lay there and moaned in her bed. Then over her crept a fierce resentment against Henry. Why should she be sacrificed to him? He was forty years old, and had lived his life; and she was young, and had not yet really begun to enjoy her's. How would she be able to bear it; or to act even complaisance when every fiber of her being was turning in mad passion and desire to Michael, her love?
Then her sense of justice resumed its sway. Henry at least was not to blame—no one was to blame but her own self. And as she had proudly agreed with Michael that every one must come up to the scratch, she must fulfil her part. There was no use in being dramatic and deciding upon a certain course as being a noble and disinterested one, and then in not having the pluck to carry it through. She had prayed for guidance indeed, and no light had come, beyond the feeling that she must stick to her word.
The report of the case would be in the Scotch papers, and Michael Arranstoun being such a person of consequence it would probably be just announced in the English journals, too, and Henry would see it. She could delay no longer; he must be told the truth in the next few days.
The sight of his kind, distinguished face shining with love had unnerved her. She must tell him with all seeming indifference, and then close the scene as quickly as she could.
While Sabine and Moravia talked in the latter's room, Moravia was full of discomfort and anxiety. Her much loved friend appeared so strange. She seemed to speak feverishly, as it were, to be trying to keep the conversation upon the lightest subjects; and when Moravia asked her how the divorce was going, she put the question aside and said that they would speak of tiresome things like that when Christmas was over!
"But," explained the Princess, "I don't call it at all tiresome. It means your freedom, Sabine, and then you will be able to marry Henry. He absolutely worships the ground you tread on, and if anything had gone wrong, I think it would have simply killed him quite."
"Yes, I know," returned Sabine. "That thought is with me day and night."
"What do you mean, darling?"
"I mean that Henry's love frightens me, Morri. How shall I ever be able to live up to being the ideal creature he thinks that I am?" and Sabine gave a forced laugh.
"You are not a bad sort, you know," the Princess told her. "A man would be very hard to please if he was not quite satisfied with you!"
Moravia's own pain about the whole thing never clouded her sense of justice. Henry's love for her friend had been manifest from the very beginning, so she had never had any illusions or doubt about it; and if she had been so weak and foolish as to allow herself to fall in love with him, she must bear it and not be mean. Sabine certainly was not to blame.
"I—hope I shall satisfy him," Sabine sighed; "but I do not know. What does satisfy a man? Tell me, Moravia—you who understand them."
"It depends upon the man," and the Princess looked thoughtful. "I know now that if I had been clever I could have satisfied Girolamo for ages, by appearing to be always just a little out of his reach, so as to keep his hunting instinct alive. When a man is a very strong, passionate creature like that, it is the only way—make him scheme to get you to be lovely to him, make him wait, and never be sure if you are going to let him kiss you or no; and if you adore him really yourself, hide it, and let him feel always that he has to use his wits and all his charms to keep you. Oh! I could have been so happy if I had known these things in time!"
"Yes, Morri, but Henry is not—like that. How must I satisfy him?"
Moravia lay back in her chair and discoursed meditatively.
"It is only the very noblest natures in men that women can be perfectly frank with, and as good and kind and tender as they feel they would like to be. Lord Fordyce is one of these. You could load him with devotion and love, and he would never take advantage of you; but just to satisfy him, Sabine, you need only be you, I expect!" and she looked fondly at her friend. "Though, darling, I tell you, if you were too nice to him, even he might turn upon you some day, probably. No woman can afford to be really devoted to a man; they can't help being mean, and immediately thinking the poor thing is of less consequence to please than some capricious cat they cannot obtain!"
Sabine nodded, and Moravia went on: "But you need not fear! Henry will adore you always—because you really don't care!" and she sighed a little bitterly at the contrariness of things.
"It is good not to care, then?"
"Yes, I think so; for happiness in a home, the woman ought always to love a little the less."
"Well, we shall be very happy, then," and Sabine echoed Moravia's sigh, but much more bitterly.
"You will be good to him, dearest?" Moravia asked rather anxiously. "He is the grandest character I have ever met in my life."
"Yes, I will be good to him."
"Just think!" Moravia, who had domestic instincts, now went on, in spite of the personal anguish she was feeling about her own love for Henry. "You may have the happiness soon of being the mother of a lovely little son like Girolamo!" and she gave a great sigh as she looked into the fire.
Sabine stiffened all over, and an expression of horrified repugnance and dismay grew in her face, and she drew her breath in with a little gasp. She had not faced this thought before, and she could not bear it now, and got up quickly, saying she must go off and dress or she would be late for dinner.
Moravia looked after her, full of wonder and foreboding for Henry. What happiness could he expect if the woman he adored felt like that!