After this, for several days Mrs. Howard made it rather difficult for
Lord Fordyce to speak to her alone, although he saw her every day, and
at every meal, and each hour grew more enamored. She, for her part, was
certainly growing to like him. He soothed her; his intelligence was
highly trained, and he was courteous and gentle and sympathetic--but for
some reason which she could not explain, she had no wish to precipitate
matters. Her mind was quite without any definite desire or
determination, but, being a woman, she was perfectly aware that Henry
was falling in love with her. A number of other men had done so before,
and had then at once begun to be uninteresting in her eyes. It was as if
she were numb to the attraction of men--but this one had qualities which
appealed to her. Her own countrymen were never cultivated enough in
literature, and were too absorbed in stocks and shares to be able to
take flights of sentiment and imagination with her. Lord Fordyce
understood in a second--and they could discuss any subject with a
refined subtlety which enchanted her.
Henry had not spent his life maneuvring love affairs with women, and
was not very clever at manipulating circumstance. He fretted and fumed
at not getting his desired tête-à-tête, but with all the will was too
hedged in by conventionality and a sense of politeness to force matters,
as his friend, Michael Arranstoun, would have done with high-handed
unconcern. Thus, his cure at Carlsbad was drawing to a close before he
again spent an afternoon quite alone with Sabine Howard. They had gone
to the Aberg to tea, and the Princess had expressed herself too tired to
walk back, and had got into the waiting carriage, making Cranley Beaton
accompany her. She was not in a perfectly amiable temper. Lord Fordyce
attracted her strongly, and it was plain to be seen he had only eyes for
Sabine--who cared for him not at all. The Princess found Cranley Beaton
absolutely tiresome--no better than the _New York Herald_, she thought
pettishly, or the _Continental Daily Mail_--to be with! The waters were
getting on her nerves, too; she would be glad to leave and go to
Sorrento with that Cupid among infants, Girolamo. Sabine had better
divorce her horror of a husband, and marry the man and have done with
it!
Now the walk from the Aberg down through the woods is a peculiarly
delightful one and, even in the season at Carlsbad, not over-crowded by
people. Henry Fordyce felt duly elated at the prospect, and Mrs. Howard
had an air of pensive mischief in her violet eyes. Lord Fordyce, who had
been accustomed for years to making speeches for his party, and was
known as a ready orator, found himself rather silent, and even a little
nervous, for the first hundred yards or so. She looked so bewitching, he
thought, in her fresh white linen, showing up the round peachiness of
her young cheeks, and those curling, childish, brown lashes making their
shadow. He was overcome with a desire to kiss her. She was so supremely
healthy and delectable. He felt he had been altogether a fool in his
estimate of the serious necessities of life hitherto. Woman was now one
of them--and this woman supremely so. Why, if she could be freed from
bonds, should she not become his wife? But he felt it might be wiser not
to be too precipitate about suggesting the thing to her. She had
certainly given him no indication that she would receive the idea
favorably, and appeared to be of the type of character which could not
be coerced. He felt very glad Michael Arranstoun had not responded to
his pressing request to join him. It would be far better that that
irritatingly attractive specimen of manhood should not step upon the
scene, until he himself had some definite hope of affairs being
satisfactorily settled.
They began their talk upon the lightest subjects, and gradually drifted
into one of the discussions of emotions in the abstract which are so
fascinating--and so dangerous--and which require skill to direct and
continue.
Mrs. Howard held that pleasure could alone come from harmony of body and
spirit, while Lord Fordyce maintained that wild discords could also
produce it, and that it could not be defined as governed by any law.
"One is sometimes full of pleasure even against one's will," he said.
"Every spiritual principle and conviction may be outraged, and yet for
some unaccountable reason pleasure remains."
Mrs. Howard opened her eyes wide as if at a sudden thought.
"Yes," she said. "I wish it were not true what you say, but it is--and
it is a great injustice."
"What makes you say that?" Henry asked, quickly. "You were thinking of
some particular thing. Do tell me."
"I was thinking how some people can sin and err in every way, and yet
there is something about them which causes them to be forgiven, and
which even causes pleasure while they are sinning; and there are others
who might do the same things and would be anathematised at once--and no
joy felt with them at any time. Moravia and I call it having 'it'--some
people have it, and some people have not got it, and that is the end of
the matter!"
"It is a strange thing, but I know what you mean. I know one particular
case of it in a friend of mine. No matter what he does, one always
forgives him. It does not depend upon looks, either--although this
actual person is abominably good-looking--it does not depend upon
intelligence or character or--anything--as you say, it is just 'it.' Now
you have it, and the Princess, perfectly charming though she is, has
not."
Sabine did not contradict him; she never was conventional, denying
truths for the sake of diffidence or politeness. Moravia was beautiful
and charming, but it was true she had not 'it.'
"I think it applies more to men than to women," was all she said.
"You were thinking of a man, then, when you spoke?"
"Yes--I was thinking of a man--but it is not an interesting subject."
Lord Fordyce decided that it was, but he did not continue it.
"I want you to tell me all about Héronac," he requested, "and what
charmed you in it enough to make you buy it suddenly like that. How did
you come upon it?"
"I had just arrived from America, at the end of July of 1908--four years
ago--and I found, when I got to Cherbourg, that I could not join my
friend, the Princess, as I had intended, because her husband had taken
her off to his country place near Naples. So I hired a motor and
wandered down into Brittany alone. I wanted to be alone. I was motoring
along, when a violent storm came on, furious rain and wind, and just at
the worst and weirdest moment, I passed Héronac, which is a few hundred
yards from the edge of the present village. It stands out in the sea on
a great spur of rock, entirely separated from the main land by a deep
chasm about thirty feet wide, over which there was then a broken bridge
which had once been a drawbridge. It was a huge, grim ruin with only a
few roofed rooms, built in about the thirteenth century originally, and
of course added to and modernized. The house actually standing within
the great towers is of the date of Louis XIV. It stood there, a dark
mass, defying the storm, although the huge waves splashed right up to
the windows."
"It sounds repellent."
"It was--fierce and grim and repellent, and it suited my mood--so I
stopped at the Inn, my old maid Simone and I, and I got permission to go
and see it. The landlord of the Inn had the keys. The last of the
Héronacs drank himself to death with absinthe in Paris, so the place was
closed, and was no doubt for sale. '_Mais oui!_' he told us. Simone was
terrified to cross the wretched bridge, with the water swirling beneath,
and we left her to go back to the Inn, while the landlord's son came
with me. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and was a most
extraordinary day, for now it began to thunder and lighten."
"I wonder you were not afraid."
"I am never afraid--I tell you, it suited me. There was still some
furniture in the roofed part of the inner court, and in the two great
towers which flank the main building--but in that the roof was off, but
the view from the windows when we crept along to them across the broken
floor was too superb, straight out to the ocean, the waves thundering at
the base. I made up my mind that night I would buy it if I could--and,
as I told you before, I did so in the following week."
"How quaint of you!"
"It has been the greatest delight to me, and, as you will see, I have
done something with it. I restored the center, and have made its
arrangements modern and comfortable, but have left that one huge room on
the first floor as it was, only with the roof mended. I spend hours and
hours in the deep window embrasures looking right over the sea. It has
taught me more of the meaning of things than all my books."
"You speak as though you were an old woman," Lord Fordyce exclaimed,
"and you look only a mere child now--then, when you bought this
brigand's stronghold, you must have been in the nursery!"
"I was over eighteen!"
"A colossal age! it was simply ridiculous for you to be wanting dark
castles and solitude. What--?" and then he paused; he did not continue
his question.
"I was really very old--I had been old for almost a year."
"And do you mean to remain old always, or will you ever let anyone teach
you to be young?"
Sabine looked away into the somber fir trees. They had got to a part of
the path where the woods on either side are black as night in their
depths.
"I--don't--know," she said, very low.
Lord Fordyce moved nearer to her.
"I wish you would let me try to take away all those somber thoughts I
see sometimes in those sweet eyes."
"How would you begin?"
"By loving you very much--and then by trying to make you love me."
"Does love take away dark thoughts, then--or does it bring them?"
"That depends upon the love," he told her, eagerly. "When it is great
enough to be unselfish, it must bring peace and happiness, surely----"
"They are good things--they are harmony--but----"
"Yes--what are the buts?" his voice trembled a little.
"Love seems to me to be a wild thing, a raging, tearing passion--Can it
ever be just tender and kind?"
"I wish you would let me prove to you that it can."
She looked into his face gravely, and there was nothing but honest
question in her violet eyes.
"To what end?" she asked.
"I would like you to marry me." He had said it now when he had not
intended to yet, and he was pale as death.
She shrank from him a little.
"But surely you know that I am not free!"
"I hoped I--believed that you can make yourself so--if you knew how I
love you! I have never really loved any woman before in my life. I
always thought they should be only recreations--but the moment I saw
you, my whole opinions changed."
She grew troubled.
"I wish you had not said this to me," she faltered. "I--do not know that
I wish to change my life. I could, of course, be free, I suppose--if I
wanted to be--but--I am not sure. What would it mean if I listened to
you? Tell me! I am sometimes very lonely--and I like you so much."
"I want to make you feel more than that, but I will be content with
whatever you will give me. I do not care one atom what dark page is in
your past, I know it can have been nothing of your own fault, and if it
were, I should not care--I only care for you--Sabine--will you not tell
me that you will try to let me make you happy. It would mean that, that
I should devote my whole life to making you happy."
"A woman should be contented with that, surely," she said. And if Henry
Fordyce had had his usual critical wits about him unclouded by love, he
would have smiled his cynical smile and have said to himself:
"The spark is not lit, my friend; her voice lacks enthusiasm and her
brows are calm," but he was like all lovers--blind--and only saw and
heard what could comfort his heart, and so caught at the straw with
delight.
"Whatever you asked I would give you. Only say that you will let me set
about helping you to be free at once."
Mrs. Howard, however, had not gone this far in her imaginings--the idea
had started in her brain, no doubt, but it had not matured yet, and all
was hesitancy.
"I cannot promise anything. You must give me time to think, Lord
Fordyce."
"Dearest, of course I will--but you will take steps to make yourself
free--will you not? I have not asked, and I will not ask you a single
question, only that you will tell me when I really may hope."
His voice was deep with feeling, and his distinguished, clever face was
eager and full of devotion, as they turned an abrupt corner, and there
came face to face with two of their American acquaintances in the hotel.
"Isn't this a charming walk, Mrs. Howard," and "Yes, isn't it!" and bows
and passings on; but it broke the current, destroyed the spell, and
released some spirit of mischief in Sabine's heart, for she would not
be grave for another second. She made Henry promise he would just amuse
her and not refer again to those serious topics unless she gave him
leave. And he, accustomed to go his own way unhampered by the caprices
of the gentle sex, agreed!--so under the dominion of love had he become!
for a woman, too, who in herself combined three things he had always
disliked. She was an American, she was very young, and she had an
equivocal position. But the little god does not consult the individual
before he shoots his darts, and punishes the most severely those who
have denied his power.
By the time they had reached the Savoy, Sabine, with that aptitude,
though it was perfectly unconscious in her, which is the characteristic
of all her countrywomen, had reduced Lord Fordyce to complete
subjection, so that he was ready to do any mortal thing in the world for
her, and willing to grasp suggestions of hope upon any terms.
She gave him a friendly smile, and disappeared up the stairs to their
sitting-room--there to find Moravia indulging in nerves.
"I just want to scream, darling!" that lady said, and Sabine patted her
hands.
"Then don't, Morri, dearest," she implored her. "You only want to
because your mother, if she had been idle, would have wanted to scrub
the floors--just as my father's business capacity came out in me just
now, and I fenced with and sampled a very noble gentleman instead of
being simple with him. Let us get above our instincts--and be the real
aristocrats we appear to the world!"
But the Princess had to have some sal volatile.
That night after dinner waywardness was upon Sabine. She would read the
_New York Herald_, which she had absolutely not glanced at since their
arrival at Carlsbad, so absorbed and entranced had she been in her walks
in the green woods, and so little interested was she ever in the doings
of the world.
She glanced at the Trouville news, and the Homburg news with wandering
mind, and then her eye fell upon the polo at Ostende, and there she read
that the English team had been giving a delightful dance at the Casino,
where Mr. Michael Arranstoun had sumptuously entertained a party of his
friends--amongst them Miss Daisy Van der Horn. The paragraph was worded
with that masterly simplicity which distinguishes intelligent, modern
journalism; and left the reader's mind confused as to words, but clear
as to suggestion. Sabine Howard knew Miss Daisy Van der Horn. As she
read, the bright, soft color left her cheeks, and then returned with a
brilliant flush.
It was the first time for five years she had ever read the name of
Arranstoun in any paper. She held the sheet firmly, and perused all the
other information of the day--but when she put it down, and joined in
the general conversation, it could have been remarked that her eyes
were glittering like fixed stars.
And when, for a moment, they all went out on the balcony to breathe in
the warm, soft night, she whispered to Henry Fordyce:
"I have been thinking--I will, at all events, begin to take steps to be
free."
But to his rapturous, "My darling!" she replied, with lowered lids:
"It will take some time--and you may not like waiting--And when I am
free--I do not know--only--I am tired, and I want someone to help me to
forget and begin again. Good-night."
Then, after she got to her room, she opened the window wide, and looked
out upon the quiet firs. But nothing stilled the unrest in her heart.