Sabine decided to be a little late for dinner--three minutes, just to
give the rest of the party time to be assembled in the big salon. She
was coming from the communicating passage to her part of the house when
Mr. Arranstoun came out of his room, and they were obliged to go down
the great staircase together.
To see him suddenly in evening dress like this brought her wedding night
back so vividly to her, she with difficulty kept a gasp from her breath.
He was certainly the most splendidly good-looking creature, with his
blue eyes and dark hair and much fairer little moustache.
"I am late!" she cried laughing, before he could speak a word. "Père
Anselme will scold me! Come along!" and she tripped forward with a
glance over her shoulder.
Michael's eyes blazed--she was a truly bewitching morsel in her fresh
white frock with its bunch of crimson sweet peas stuck in the belt.
"Your flowers should be stephanotis," he said, and that was all, as he
followed her down the stairs.
"I cannot bear them," she retorted and shuddered a little. "I only care
for out-door, simple things like my sweet peas."
He did not speak as they went along the gallery--this disconcerted
her--what did it mean? She had been prepared to fence with him, and keep
him in his place, she was ready to defend herself on all sides--and no
defence seemed necessary! A sudden cold feeling came over her as though
excitement had died down and she opened the salon door quickly and
advanced into the room.
Michael had come to a determination while dressing--Henry had walked in
and smoked a cigarette with him before he began, and had then showed
plainly his joy and satisfaction. She--his worshiped lady--had never
before been so tender and gracious, and he was awfully happy because
things were going well. And what did his friend Michael think of his
choice? Was she not the sweetest woman in the world?
Michael said he had seen better-looking ones, but admitted she had
charm. He was really suffering, the situation was so impossible and he
had not yet made up his mind what he ought to do--tell Henry straight
out that Sabine was his wife or what? If he did that he might be going
contrary to some plan of hers--for she evidently had no intention yet of
informing Lord Fordyce, or of giving the least indication that she
recognized him--Michael. It was the most grotesque puzzle and contained
an element of the tragic, too--for one of them.
Henry's happiness and contentment touched him--his dear old friend!--he
felt extraordinarily upset. But when Lord Fordyce had gone he rapidly
reviewed matters and made up his mind. At all events, for the present,
he would be guided by what Sabine's attitude should be herself. He would
certainly see her alone on the following day and then she would most
likely broach the subject and they could agree what to do--for that
Henry must know some day was an incontestable fact. He, Michael, would
make some excuse and leave Héronac by the next evening, it was
impossible to go on playing such a part, and not fair to any one, least
of all to his friend.
"I will give her to-night to declare her hand," he thought, as his
valet, no longer the dignified Johnson, handed him his coat, "and then
if she will not put the cards down--I must."
But when he opened his door and saw her exquisite slender figure
tripping forward from the dark passage, a fierce pain gripped his heart,
and he said between his teeth:
"My God! if it had not been too late!"
The Dame d'Héronac was in wild spirits at dinner--and her cheeks burned
like glowing roses. Monsieur le Curé watched her with his wise, black
eye.
"The child is not herself," he thought. "It is possible that this
Englishman may mean a great deal to her--but he is of the gentle type,
not of the sort one would believe to make strong passions--no--now if it
had been the other one--the friend--that one could have seen some light
through--a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman--a fine
young man, a splendid young man--but yes."
Madame Imogen made no reflections, she was too delighted with their gay
repast, and helped with her jolly wit to keep the ball rolling.
Henry felt slightly intoxicated with happiness--while in Michael,
passions of various sorts were rising, against his will.
A devil was in Sabine--never had she been so alluring, so feminine, so
completely removed from her usual grave, indifferent self.
She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversation
beyond what cordial politeness compelled. It was to Père Anselme that
she almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies to
Madame Imogen. But her whole atmosphere was radiating with provoking
fascination--and as they all rose from table she took Lord Fordyce's
arm.
"In England, I hear you men remain in the dining room to drink all sorts
of ports--but here in my France we expect you to be sociable and come
with us at once--you may smoke where you choose."
Henry could not refrain from caressing with his other hand the little
cold one lying on his arm as they walked along--while he whispered with
passionate devotion:
"My darling, darling girl!"
"Hush!" she answered nervously. "Your friend will hear!"
"And if he does! what matter, dearest--he knows that I love you, and
that as soon as you are free you are going to be my wife."
There must have been a slight roughness in the carpet which slid upon
the slippery floor, for the Dame d'Héronac stumbled a little and then
gasped:
"He--knows that----!"
And by the time they all reached the salon, her rosy cheeks were pale,
while the pupils of her violet eyes were so large as to make them appear
to be black as night.
The gay sprite of the dinner-table seemed to have taken her departure
and a dignified and serious hostess filled her place. A hostess who
discoursed of gardens, and architecture, and such subjects--and at ten
o'clock when the Père Anselme gave his blessing and wished the company
good-night, also gave a white hand to her guests, saying that Madame
Imogen would show them the small salon where they could smoke and have
their drinks before retiring to their rooms, then she bowed to them and
walked off slowly to her part of the house.
When she had gone, Michael said a little hoarsely to Henry:
"I have got the fiend of a headache, old man. I think I won't smoke, but
turn in at once."
An hour or two later, when the whole château was wrapped in
darkness--the mistress of it crept from her bed-room to the great
sitting-room, and turning on the light, she unlocked a blue despatch-box
which stood beside her writing-table. From this she took a letter,
marked a little with former perusals--and she read it over once more
from beginning to end.
It had
Arranstoun Castle,
Scotland,
stamped upon it in red and it bore a date in June, 1907. It had no
beginning and thus it ran:
Since after everything I wake to find you have chosen to leave me
you can abide by your decision. I will not follow you or ever seek
to bring you back. It is useless to ask you if you meant that you
forgave me--because your going proves that you really have not--so
make what you please of your life as I shall make what I please of
mine.
Michael Arranstoun.
When she put the paper back again, glittering tears gathered and rolled
in shining drops down her cheeks.
He had meant that last paragraph then, and he meant it now evidently,
since he knew that she was pledged to marry Henry when she should be
free, and had made no protest. Perhaps he was glad and intended to marry
Miss Daisy van der Horn! Her tears dried suddenly--and her cheeks
burned. She must think this situation out, and not just drift. It was
plain that Michael had been astonished to the point of stupefaction on
seeing her. He could not have known then that his friend wished to marry
her--Sabine--only that his friend wished to marry the lady they were
going to see. But he knew it afterwards, he knew it at dinner--and yet
he said never a word. What could it mean? What could be best to do?
Perhaps to see him alone in the morning and ask him to grant her freedom
and get the divorce as quickly as possible. She could count upon herself
not to betray the slightest feeling in the interview. If only that
strange turn of fate had not brought Lord Fordyce into her life, what
glorious pleasure she would now take in trying her uttermost to
fascinate and attract Michael--not that she desired him for
herself!--only to punish him for all the past! But she was not free. She
had given her word to Henry. The humiliation of feeling that Michael was
making no protest, and would apparently from this fact agree willingly
to divorce her, stung her pride and made her want to make him suffer and
regret in some way. If she could believe that it was paining him, she
would be glad--and if it appeared possible to keep up the pretence of
unrecognition for longer than to-morrow, she would certainly do so; it
was a frantic excitement in any case, and she adored difficult games.
Then as she put the letter back in her despatch-box, her hand touched a
large blue enamel locket, and with a shiver she hastily shut down the
lid, and as one fleeing from a ghost she ran back to bed.
Michael meanwhile was pacing his room in deep and agitated thought.
How supremely attractive she was! And to have to give her up to Henry;
it was too frightfully cruel. But he had absolutely no right to stand in
either of their lights. He had not even the right to undermine his
friend's influence by deed or look, since he had given him his word of
honor that he would not do so. What a blind fool he had been all those
years ago to let passionate rage at Sabine's daring to leave him make
him write her that letter. He would not have done it if he had not felt
such an intolerable brute--and glad to cut the whole thing by accepting
Latimer Berkeley's suggestion to join him for the China expedition at
once. The Berkeley letter coming that next morning was a stroke of fate.
If he had had a day to think about things, he would have followed his
impulse after the anger died down, and gone after her to Mr. Parsons'
London address, but he had already wired to Latimer and his resentful
blood was up.
He remembered how he had not allowed himself to think of her--but had
concentrated his whole mind upon his sport. For it had been tremendous
sport and had interested him deeply, that journey to Tibet. And however
strong feelings may be at moments--absence and fresh interests dull
them. To banish her memory became a good deal easier as time went on,
and even the idea to divorce her if she wished did not seem too hard.
But now he had seen her again--and every spell she had cast over him on
that June night was renewed ten-fold. She was everything he could
desire--she was beautiful and sweet and witty, with a charm which only
complete independence and indifference can ever give a woman in the eyes
of such a man as he. This he did not reason out--thinking himself a very
ordinary person--in fact, never thinking of himself at all or what his
temperament was affected by. He did not realize either that the very
fact of Sabine's being now out of his reach made her appear the one and
only thing he cared to possess. He knew nothing except that he felt
perfectly mad with fate--mad with himself for making an unconditional
promise to Henry, perfectly furious that he had been too stupid to
connect the name of Howard at once with his wife.
And here he was sleeping in her castle--not she sleeping in his! And he
was conforming to her lead--not she following his. And the only thing
for a gentleman to do under the complicated circumstances was to
speedily divorce her according to the Scottish law and let her marry
his friend, Henry Fordyce--give them his blessing and lend them
Arranstoun for the honeymoon!
When he got thus far in his meditations, he simply stood in the middle
of the room and cursed aloud.
Never in his whole life had bolts or bars or circumstances been allowed
to keep him from his will.
And then it did come to his shrewd mind that these things were not
circumstances, but were barriers forged _by himself_.
"If I had not been such an awful brute--and the moment had not been--as
it was--I might have gradually made her love me and kept her always for
my own!" his thoughts ran. "Well--we were both too young then--and now I
must take the consequences and at least not be a swine to poor old
Henry."
With superb irony, among his letters next morning which he had wired to
be forwarded to Héronac, there came one from his lawyer, informing him
that he had received a guarded communication from his wife's
representative, Mr. Parsons--with what practically amounted to a request
that he, Mr. Arranstoun, should begin to set the law in motion, to break
the bond between them--and his lawyer inquired what his wishes were upon
the subject and what should be the nature of their reply?
To get this at Héronac--Sabine's house! He shook with fierce laughter in
his bed.
Then his temper got up, and he came to a fresh determination. He would
break her pride--she should kneel if she wanted her freedom, she should
have it only if she asked him for it herself. He would not leave that
day after all! He would stay and play the comedy to its end. While she
would not recognize him, he would not recognize her. It was she who had
set the pace and the responsibility of not informing Henry lay at her
door. It was a damnably exciting game--far beyond polo or even slaying
long-haired tigers in Manchuria--and he would play it and bluff without
a card in his hand.
He was not a noble hero, you see, but just a strong and passionate young
man--with "it"!
The day was so gorgeous--Sabine woke with some kind of joyousness. She
was only twenty-two years old and supremely healthy; and however
complicated fate seemed to be, when nerves and appetite are perfect and
the sun is shining, it is really impossible to feel too gloomy.
Her periwinkle cambric was a reflection of her eyes, and her brown hair
seemed filled with rays of gold as she stepped across the courtyard at
about ten o'clock on her way to the garden. Her guests would sleep
late--and at breakfast at twelve would be time enough to see them.
But Michael caught sight of the top of a wide straw hat, and the flutter
of a bluish gown from his window, and did not hesitate for a second.
Henry, he knew, was only in his bath, while he himself was fully
dressed in immaculate white flannels.
It did not take him five minutes to gain the courtyard, or to saunter
over the causeway bridge, and into the garden--he had brought the
English papers with him, which had been among his post. He would pretend
he had sought solitude and would be duly surprised and pleased to
encounter his hostess. That he had no business in her private garden at
all without her invitation did not trouble him, things like that never
blocked his way; he had always been too welcome anywhere for such an
aspect even to have presented itself to him.
He played his part to perfection--reconnoitering as stealthily as when
he was stalking big game, until he perceived his quarry at the far end
among the lavender, giving orders to a gardener. He then turned in the
opposite direction, with great unconsciousness, to read the paper in
peace apparently being his only care! Here he paced the walk which cut
off her retreat from the gate, never glancing up. Sabine saw him of
course, and her heart began to beat--was it possible for a man to be so
good-looking or so utterly casual and devil-may-care! If she walked
toward the arbor turret he would be obliged to see her when she came to
the end, and then must come up and say good-morning. She picked up her
flower-basket and went that way, and with due surprise and pleasure,
Michael looked up from his paper at exactly the right moment and caught
sight of her.
He came toward her with just the proper amount of haste and raised his
straw hat in a gay good-morning.
"Isn't it a divine day," he said. "I had to come out and read the
papers--and the courtyard looked so dull and I did not know where else
to go--it is luck finding you here!"
"I always come into the garden in the morning when it is fine--I know
every plant and they are all my friends." Then to hide the pleasurable
excitement she was feeling, she bent down and picked a bit of lavender.
"I love that smell--won't you give me some, too?" he pleaded--and she
handed him a sprig which he fixed in his white coat. "You have made the
most enchanting place of this," he next told her. "Can't we go up and
sit in that summer-house while you tell me how you began? Henry said all
this was a ruin when you bought it some years ago--it is extraordinarily
clever of you."
Not the slightest embarrassment was in his manner, not the smallest look
of extra meaning in his eyes; he was simply a guest and she a hostess,
out together in the sunlight. A sense of unreality stole over Sabine. It
could not be all true--it was just some dream--a little more vivid, that
was all, than those which used to come to her of him sometimes
during--that year. She almost felt that she would like to put out her
hand and touch him to see if he were tangible or a thing of illusion as
she led the way to the turret summer-house.
The wall which protected the garden from the sea was very high and this
little tower had been in the original fortifications and had been
cleverly adapted to its present use. It was open, with glass which slid
back on the southern side, and its great windows looked out over the
blue waters and granite rocks on the other. The little bay curved round
so that from there you got a three-quarter view of the château.
Sabine put her basket down, and climbing up the wooden step she seated
herself upon the high window-seat, her feet dangling while she opened
the casement wide. Michael stood beside her leaning upon the sill--so
that she was slightly above him.
"What a glorious view!" he exclaimed; "it is certainly a perfect spot.
Why, it has everything! The sea and its waves to dash up at it--and then
this lovely garden for shelter and peace. What a fortunate young woman
you are!"
"Yes, am I not?"
"I have an old castle, too--perhaps Henry has told you about it. We have
owned it ever since Adam, I suppose!" and he laughed. "The grim part of
this is rather like it in a way; I mean the stone passages and huge
rooms--but of course the architecture is different. It has been the
scene of every sort of fight. I should like to show it to you some day."
Stupefaction rose in Sabine's mind. After all, had she been mistaken,
and had he really not recognized her?--or had her acting of the night
before convinced him that his first ideas must be wrong and that she was
really not his wife! Excitement thrilled her. But if he was playing a
part, she then must certainly play, too, and not speak to him about the
divorce until he spoke to her. Thus they were unconsciously the one set
against the other and both determined that the other should show first
hand. It looked as though the interests of Lord Fordyce might be somehow
forgotten!
They talked thus for half an hour, Michael asking questions about
Héronac with polite interest and without ever saying a sentence with a
double meaning, and she replying with frank information, and both
burning with excitement and zest. Then her great charm began to affect
him so profoundly that unconsciously something of eagerness and emotion
crept into his voice. It was one of those voices full of extraordinarily
attractive cadences at any time, and made for the seducing of a woman's
ear. Sabine knew that she was enjoying herself with a wild kind of
forbidden joy--but she did not analyze its cause. It could not be mean
to Henry just to talk about Héronac when she was not by word or look
deliberately trying to fascinate his friend--she was only being
naturally polite and casual.
"Arranstoun only wants the sea," Michael said at last, "and then it
would be as perfect as this. I have a big, old sitting-room, too, that
was once part of a great hall, and my bedroom is the other half--a suite
all to myself--but I have not been there for five years--I am going back
from here."
"How strange to be away from your home for so long," Sabine remarked
innocently. "Where have you been?"
Then he told her all about China and Tibet.
"I had taken some kind of distaste for Arranstoun and shirked going
there--I shall have to face it now, I suppose, because it is such hard
luck on the people when an owner is away, and so one must come up to the
scratch."
"Yes," she agreed, "one must always do that."
"I used to think out a lot of things when I was in the wilds--and I grew
to know that one is a great fool when young--and a great brute."
She began to pull her lavender to pieces--this conversation was growing
too dangerously fascinating and must be stopped at once.
"It is getting nearly breakfast-time," she said gaily, "and I just want
to pick a big bunch of sweet peas before the sun gets on them, won't you
help me?--and then we will go in."
She slid to the floor before he could put out a hand to assist her, and
with her swift, graceful movements led the way to the tall sticks where
the last of the summer sweet peas grew.
Here she handed him the basket and told him to work hard--and all the
while she chattered of the ways of these flowers, and the trouble she
had had to make them grow there, and would not once let the conversation
upon this subject flag.
"Some day when I live in England, I suppose I can have a lovely garden
there--it is famous for gardens, isn't it? I take in _Country Life_ and
try to learn from it."
"Yes," he answered, and grew stiff. The sudden picture of her living in
England--with Henry--came to him as an ugly shock.
"Before you settle down in England, I would like you to see
Arranstoun,--please promise me to come and stay there before you do? I
will have a party whenever you like. I would love to show it to
you--every part of it--especially the chapel--it is full of wonderful
things!"
If she chose to give him reminders of aspects which hurt, he would do
the same!
"It sounds most interesting," she agreed, but had not the courage to
make any remarks about the chapel or ask what it contained.
The clock over the gateway struck twelve--and she laughingly started to
walk very fast toward the house.
"Madame Imogen and Lord Fordyce will be ravenous--come, let us go
quickly--I can even run!"
So they strode on together with the radiant faces of those exalted by
an exciting game, on the way passing Père Anselme.
And in the cool tapestried antechamber of the _salle-à-manger_, they
found Henry looking from the window a little wistfully, and a pang of
self-reproach struck both their hearts.