VERY early on Christmas morning, Lord Fordyce went down to the presbytère and walked with the Père Anselme on his way to Mass. He had come to a conclusion during the night. The worthy priest would be the more fitting person to see Michael than he, himself; he felt he could well leave all explanations in those able hands—and then, when his old friend knew everything, he, Henry, would meet him and bring him to the Château of Héronac, and so to Sabine.
The Père Anselme was quite willing to undertake this mission; he would have returned to his breakfast by then and would await Michael's arrival, he told Henry. Michael would come from the station, twenty kilometers away, in Henry's motor.
The wind had got up, and a gloriously rough sea beat itself against the rocks. The thundering surf seemed some comfort to Henry. He was unconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had ever imagined that he could feel after such a blow. Moravia's maneuvrings and sweet sympathy had been most effective, and Henry had fallen asleep while her spell was still upon him—and only awakened after several hours of refreshing slumber. Then it was he decided upon the plan, which he put into execution as soon as daylight came. Now he left the old priest at the church door and strode away along the rough coast road, battling with the wind and trying to conquer his thoughts.
He was following Moravia's advice, and replacing each one of pain as it came with one of pleasure—and the cold air exhilarated his blood.
Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxiety and speculation. What had happened? There was no clue in Henry's dry words in the telegram. Had there been some disaster? Was Henry violently angry with him? What would their meeting bring? He had come in to the Ritz from a dinner party, and had got the telegram just in time to rush straight to the station with a hastily-packed bag, and get into an almostmoving train, and all night long he had wondered and wondered, as he sat in the corner of his carriage. But whatever had happened was a relief—it produced action. He had no longer just to try to kill time and stifle thought; he could do something for good or ill.
It seemed as though he would never arrive, as the hours wore on and dawn faded into daylight. Then, at last, the crawling engine drew up at his destination, and he got out and recognized Henry's chauffeur waiting for him on the platform. The swift rush through the cold air refreshed him, and took away the fatigue of the long night—and soon they had drawn up at the door of the presbytère, and he found himself being shown by the priest's ancient housekeeper into the spotlessly clean parlor.
The Père Anselme joined him in a moment, and they silently shook hands. "You are not aware, sir, why you have been sent for, I suppose?" the priest asked, with his mild courtesy. "Pray be seated, there by the stove, and I will endeavor to enlighten you."
Michael sat down.
"Please tell me everything," he said.
The Père Anselme spread out his thin hands toward the warmth of the china, while he remained standing opposite his visitor.
"The good God at last put it into the mind of the Lord Fordyce that our Dame d'Héronac has not been altogether happy of late—and upon my suggestion he questioned her as to the cause of this, and learned what I believe to be the truth—which you, sir, can corroborate—namely, that you are her husband and are obtaining the divorce not from desire, but from a motive of loyalty to your friend."
"That is the case," assented Michael quietly, a sudden great joy in his heart.
The priest was silent, so he went on:
"And what does Lord Fordyce mean to do?—release her and give her back to me—or what, mon Père?"
"Is it necessary to ask?" and Père Anselme lifted questioning and almost whimsical eyebrows. "Surely you must know that your friend is a gentleman!"
"Yes, I know that—but it must mean the most awful suffering to him—poor, dear old Henry—Is he quite knocked out?"
"The good God tries no one beyond his strength—he will find consolation. But, meanwhile, it will be well that you let me offer you the hospitality of my poor house for rest and refreshment"—here the old man made a courtly bow—"and when you have eaten and perhaps bathed, you can take the road to the Château of Héronac, where you will find Lord Fordyce by the garden wall, and he will perhaps take you to Madame Sabine. That is as he may think wisest—I believe she is quite unprepared. Of the reception you are likely to receive from her you are the best judge yourself."
"It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time, mon Père."
"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves—since the good God has seen fit to restore you to happiness."
"I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?" The old priest coughed slightly.
"I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine——"
Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly.
"No, indeed, I do not—I know I have been an unspeakable brute—I have not the grain of an excuse to offer—and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not, mon Père?"
The Curé of Héronac sighed gently.
"Angels when they love, and demons when they hate—of an unbalance—but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them—to heaven or hell."
Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Père Anselme led the way without further words.
Less than an hour later, the two men who loved this one woman met just over the causeway, where Henry awaited Michael's coming. It was a difficult moment for them both, but they clasped hands with a few ordinary words. Henry's walk in the wind had strengthened his nerves. For some reason, he was now conscious that he was feeling no acute pain as he had expected that he would do, and that there was even some kind of satisfaction in the thought that, on this Christmas morning, he was able to bring great happiness to Sabine. He could not help remarking, as they crossed the drawbridge, that Michael looked a most suitable mate for her: he was such a picture of superb health and youth. As they entered the courtyard, Moravia and her little son came out of the main door.
The Princess greeted them gaily. She was going to show Girolamo the big waves from the causeway bridge before going on to church; they had a good half-hour. She experienced no surprise at seeing Michael, only asking about his night journey's uncomfortableness, and then she turned to Henry:
"Come and join us there by the high parapet, Henry, as soon as you have taken Mr. Arranstoun up to Sabine. She has not come out of her wing yet; but I know that she is dressed and in her sitting-room," and smiling merrily, she took Girolamo's little hand and went her way.
There was no sound when the two men reached Sabine's sitting-room door. Henry knocked gently, but no answer came; so he opened it and looked in. Great fires burned in the wide chimneys and his flowers gave forth sweet scent, but the Lady of Héronac was absent, or so it seemed.
"Come in, Michael, and wait," Henry said; and then, from the embrasure of the far window, they heard a stifled exclamation, and saw that Sabine was indeed there after all, and had risen from the floor, where she had been kneeling by the window-seat looking out upon the waves.
Her face was deadly pale and showed signs of a night's vigil, but when she caught sight of Michael it was as though the sun had emerged from a cloud, so radiant grew her eyes. She stood quite still, waiting until they advanced near to her down the long room, and then she steadied herself against the back of a tall chair.
"Sabine," Henry said, "I want you to be very happy on this Christmas day, and so I have brought your husband back to you. All these foolish divorce proceedings are going to be stopped, and you and he can settle all your differences, together, dear—" then, as a glad cry forced itself from Sabine's lips—his voice broke with emotion. She stretched out her hands to him, and he took one and drew her to Michael, who stood behind him.
Then he took also his old friend's hand, and clasped it upon Sabine's.
"I am not much of a churchman," he said, hoarsely, "but this part of the marriage service is true, I expect. 'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.'" Then he dropped their hands, and turned toward the door.
"Oh! Henry, you are so good to us!" Sabine cried. "No words can say what I feel."
But Lord Fordyce could bear no more—and murmuring some kind of blessing, he got from the room, leaving the two there in the embrasure of the great window gazing into each other's eyes.
As the door shut, Michael spoke at last:
"Sabine—My own!" he whispered, and held out his arms.
When Henry left Sabine's sitting-room, he staggered down the stairs like one blind—the poignant anguish had returned, and the mantle of comfort fell from his shoulders. He was human, after all, and the picture of the rapture on the faces of the two, showing him what he had never obtained, stabbed him like a knife. He felt that he would willingly drop over the causeway bridge into the boiling sea, and finish all the pain. He saw Moravia's blue velvet dress in the distance down the road when he left the lodge gates, and he fled into the garden; he must be alone—but she had seen him go, and knew that another crisis had come and that she must conquer this time also. So apparently only for the gratification of Girolamo, she turned and entered the garden—the garden which seemed to be a predestined spot for the stratagems of lovers!—then she strolled toward the sea-wall, not turning her head in the direction where she plainly perceived Henry had gone, but taking care that Girolamo should see him, as she knew he would run to him. This he immediately did, and dragged his victim back to his mother in the pavilion which looked out over the sea. Girolamo was now three years old and a considerable imp; he displayed Henry proudly and boasted of his catch—while Moravia scolded him sweetly and asked Henry to forgive them for intruding upon his solitude.
"You know I understand you must want to be alone, dear friend, and I would not have come if I had seen you," she said, tenderly, while she turned and, leaning out, beckoned to the nurse, whom she could just see across the causeway on the courtyard wall, where the raised parapet was. Then allowing her feelings to overcome her judgment, she flung out her arms and seizing Henry's hands, she drew them into her warm, huge muff.
"Henry—I can't help it—!" she gasped. "It breaks my heart to see you so cold and white and numb—I want to warm and comfort and love you back to life again——!"
At this minute, the sun burst through the scudding clouds, and blazed in upon them from the archway; and it seemed to Henry as if a new vitality rushed into his frozen veins. She was so human and pretty, and young and real. Love for him spoke from her sparkling, brown eyes. The ascendancy she had obtained over him on the previous evening returned in a measure; he no longer wanted to get away from her and be alone.
He made some murmuring reply, and did not seek to draw away his hands—but a sudden change of feeling seemed to come over Moravia for she lowered her head and a deep, pink flush grew in her cheeks.
"What will you think of me, Henry?" she whispered, pulling at his grasp, which grew firmer as she tried to loosen it. "I"—and then she raised her eyes, which were suffused with tears. "Oh! it seems such horrid waste for you to be sick with grief for Sabine, who is happy now—and that only I must grieve——"
Girolamo had seen his nurse entering the far gate and was racing off to meet her, so that they were quite alone in the pavilion now, and Moravia's words and the tears in her fond eyes had a tremendous effect upon Henry. It moved some unknown cloud in his emotions. She, too, wanted comfort, not he alone—and he could bring it to her and be soothed in return, so he drew her closer and closer to him, and framed her face in his hands.
"Moravia," he said, tenderly. "You shall not grieve, dear child—If you want me, take me, and I will give you all the devotion of true friendship—and, who knows, perhaps we shall find the Indian summer, after all, now that the gates of my fool's paradise are shut."
In the abstract, it was not highly gratifying to a woman's vanity, this declaration! but, as a matter of fact, it was beyond Moravia's wildest hopes. She had not a single doubt in her astute American mind that, once she should have the right to the society of Henry—with her knowledge of the ways of man—that she would soon be able to obliterate all regrets for Sabine, and draw his affections completely to herself.
At this juncture, she showed a stroke of genius.
"Henry," she said, her voice vibrating with profound feeling, "I do want you—more than anything I have ever wanted in my life—and I will make you forget all your hurts—in my arms."
There was certainly nothing left for Lord Fordyce, being a gallant gentleman, to do but to stoop his tall head and kiss her—and, to his surprise, he found this duty turn into a pleasure—so that, in a few moments, when they were close together looking out upon the waves through the pavilion's wide windows, he encircled her with his arm—and then he burst into a laugh, but though it was cynical, it contained no bitterness.
"Moravia—you are a witch," he told her. "Here is a situation that, described, would read like pathos—and yet it has made us both happy. Half an hour ago, I was wishing I might step over into that foam—and now——"
"And now?" demanded the Princess, standing from him.
"And now I realize that, with the New Year, there may dawn new joys for me. Oh! my dear, if you will be content with what I can give you, let us be married soon and go to India for the rest of the winter."
The Père Anselme noticed that his only congregation from the Château consisted of Mr. Cloudwater and Madame Imogen; and he thanked the good God—as he sent up a fervent prayer for the absentees' happiness.
"It means that they two are near heaven, and that consolation will come to the disconsolate one, since all four remain at home," he told himself. This was a dénouement worthy of Christmas Day, and of far more value in his eyes than the two pairs' mere presence in his church.
"The ways of the good God are marvellous," he mused, as he went to his vestry, "and it is fitting that youth should find its mate. We grieve and wring our hearts—and nothing is final—and while there is life there is hope—that love may bloom again. Peace be with them."