All through breakfast, Sabine devoted herself sedulously to Lord
Fordyce--and this produced two results. It sent Henry into a seventh
heaven and caused Michael to burn with jealous rage. Primitive instincts
were a good deal taking possession of him--and he found it extremely
difficult to keep up his rôle of disinterested friend. It must be
admitted he was in really a very difficult position for any man, and it
is not very easy to decide what he ought to have done short of telling
Henry the truth at once--but this he found grew every moment more hard
to do. It would mean that he would have to leave Héronac immediately. In
any case, he must do this directly. Sabine admitted, even to him, that
she was his wife. They could not together agree to leave Henry in
ignorance, that would be deliberately deceiving, and would make them
both feel too mean. But while nothing was even tacitly confessed, there
seemed some straw for his honor to grasp; he clutched at it knowing its
flimsy nature. He had given himself until the next day and now refused
to look beyond that. Every moment Sabine was attracting him more
deeply--and bringing certain memories more vividly before him with
maddening tantalization.
But did she love Henry? Of that he could not be sure. If she did, he
certainly must divorce her at once. If she did not--why was she wishing
to marry him? Henry was an awfully good fellow, far better than he--but
after all, she was his wife--even though he had forfeited all right to
call her so, and if she did not love Henry, no friendship toward him
ought to be allowed to stand in the way of their reunion. It is
astonishing how civilization controls nature! If we put as much force
into the controlling of our own thoughts as we put into acting up to a
standard of public behavior, what wonderful creatures we should become!
Here were these two human beings--young and strong and full of passion,
playing each a part with an art as great as any displayed at the Comédie
Française! And all for reasons suggested by civilization!--when nature
would have solved the difficulty in the twinkling of an eye!
Michael spent a breakfast hour in purgatory. It was plain to be seen
that Henry expected him to show some desire to go fishing, or to want
some other sport which required solitude, or only the company of Madame
Imogen--and his afternoon looked as if it were not going to be a thing
of joy. The result of civilization then made him say:
"May I take out that boat I saw in the little harbor after breakfast,
Mrs. Howard? I must have some real exercise. Two days in a motor is too
much."
And his hostess graciously accorded him a permission, while her heart
sank--at least she experienced that unpleasant physical sensation of
heaviness somewhere in the diaphragm which poets have christened
heart-sinking! She knew it was quite the right thing for him to have
done,--and yet she wished fervently that they could have spent another
hour like the one in the turret summer-house.
Henry was radiant--and as Michael went off through the postern and down
to the little harbor where the boats lay, he asked in fine language what
were his beloved's wishes for the afternoon?
Sabine felt pettish, she wanted to snap out that she did not care a
single sou what they did, but she controlled herself and answered
sweetly that she would take him all over the château and ask his opinion
and advice about some further improvements she meant to make.
They strolled first to the crenellated wall of the courtyard along which
there was a high walk from which you looked down upon the boat-house and
the little jetty--this wall made the fourth side of the courtyard, and
with the gate tower, and the concierge's tower across the causeway, and
part of the garden elevation, was the very oldest of the whole château,
and dated from early feudal times.
They leaned upon the stone and looked down at the sea.
"There are only a very few days in the year that Minne-ha-ha ever comes
out of her shed," Sabine told him, pointing to the boat-house. "You
cannot imagine what the wind is here--even now it may get up in a few
moments on this glassy sea, or thunder may come--and in the autumn the
storms are too glorious. I sit at one of the big windows in my
sitting-room and watch the waves for hours; they break on the rocks
which stretch out from the tower, which is my bedroom on the Finisterre
side, and they rise mountain-high; it is a most splendid sight. We are,
as it were, in the midst of a cauldron of boiling foam. It exalts and
vitalizes me more than I can tell you. I wish it had been the autumn
now."
"I don't," he said. "I much prefer the summer and peace. I want to take
away all that desire for fierce things, dearest--they were the echoes of
those dark thoughts and shadows which used to be in your eyes at
Carlsbad."
"Ah, if you could!" she sighed.
It was the first time he had ever seen her moved--and it distressed him.
"Do you not think that I can, then?" he asked, tenderly. "It is the only
thing I really want in life--to make you happy."
"How good you are, Henry!" she cried; "so noble and unselfish and true;
you frighten me. I am just a creature of earth--full of things you may
not like when you know me better. I am sure I think of myself more than
any one else--you make me--ashamed."
He took her hand and kissed it, while his fine gray eyes melted in
worship.
"I will not even listen when you say such things--for me you are
perfect--a pearl of great price."
"I must try to be, but I am not," and her voice trembled a little. "I
believe I am as full of faults and life as your friend there--Mr.
Arranstoun, who I am sure is just a selfish, reckless man!"
Michael at this moment reached the boat-house with old Berthe's son, who
began to help him to untie the one he wanted. He looked the most
splendid creature there in his white flannels--and he turned and waved
to them and then got in and pulled out a few yards with long, easy
strokes.
"Michael is a character," his friend said. "He has been spoilt all his
life by women--and fortune. He has a most strange story. He married a
girl about five years ago just to make himself safe from another woman
whom he had been making love to. I was awfully angry with him at the
time--I was staying in the house and I refused to wait for the wedding.
I thought it such a shame to the girl, although it was merely an empty
ceremony--but she was awfully young, I believe."
"How interesting!" and Sabine's voice was strained. "You saw the
girl--what was she like?"
"No, I never saw her--it was all settled one afternoon when I was
out--and I thought it such a thundering shame that I left that same
night."
"And if you had stayed--you would have met her--how curious fate is
sometimes--isn't it? Perhaps you could have prevented your friend being
so foolish--if you had stayed."
"No, nothing in the world would ever prevent Michael from doing what he
wanted to--it is in the blood of all those old border families--heredity
again--they flourished by imposing their wills recklessly and snatching
and fighting, and who ever survived was a strong man. It has come down
to them in force and vigor and daring unto this day."
"But what happened about the marriage?" Sabine asked. "It interests me
so much; it sounds so romantic at this matter-of-fact time."
"Nothing happened, except that they went through the ceremony and the
girl left at once that same night, I believe, and Michael has never seen
or heard of her since--he tells me the time is up now when he can
divorce her for desertion, according to Scotch law--and I fancy he will.
It is a ridiculous position for them both. He does not even know if she
has not preferred some one else by now."
"Surely she would have given some sign if she had--but perhaps he does
not care."
"Not much. I fancy he amused himself a good deal at Ostende--" and
Henry smiled. "He has been away in the wilds for five years and
naturally has come back full of zest for civilization."
Sabine's full lips curled, and she looked at the sea again, and the
figure in the boat rapidly pulling away from the shore.
"If he chose to leave her alone all these years, he could not expect
anything else, could he, than that she would have grown to care for
another man."
"No, that is what I told him--and he said he was a dog in the manger."
"He did not want her himself, and yet did not wish to give her to any
one else--how disgustingly selfish!"
"Men are proverbially selfish," and Henry smiled again; "it is the
nature of the creatures."
The violet eyes were glowing as stars might glow could they be
angry--and their owner turned away from the sea with a fine shrug of her
shoulders--her thoughts were raging. So that is how Michael looked upon
the _affaire_! He was just the dog in the manger, and she was the hay!
But never, never would she submit to that! She would speak to him when
he came in and ask him to divorce her at once. Why should Henry ever
know?--even if Scotch divorces were reported she would appear, not as
Mrs. Howard, but as Mrs. Arranstoun,--then a discouraging thought
came--only Sabine was such an uncommon name--if it were not for that he
might never guess. But whether Henry ever knew or did not know, the
sooner she were free the better, and then she would marry him and adorn
his great position in the world--and Michael would see her there, and
how well she fulfilled her duties--so even yet she would be able to
punish him as he deserved! Hay! Indeed! Never, never, never!
Then she knew she must have been answering at random some of Lord
Fordyce's remarks, for a rather puzzled look was on his face.
A strong revulsion of feeling came to her. Henry suddenly appeared in
his best guise--and a wave of tenderness for him swept over her. How
kind and courteous and devoted he was--treating her always as his queen.
She could be sure of homage here--and that far from being hay; she would
be the most valued jewel in his crown of success. She would rise into
spheres where she would be above the paltry emotions caused by a hateful
man just because he had "it"!
So she gave her hand to Henry in a burst of exuberance and let him place
it in his arm, and then lead her back into the château and through all
the rooms, where they discussed blues and greens and stuffs and
furniture and the lowering of this doorway and the heightening of that,
and at last they drifted to the garden and to the lavender hedge--but
she would not take him into the summer-house or again look out on the
sea.
All through her sweetness there was a note of unrest--and Henry's fine
senses told him so--and this left the one drop of bitterness in his
otherwise blissful cup.
Michael meanwhile was expending his energy and his passion in swift
movement in the boat--but after a while he rested on his oars and then
he began to think.
There was no use in going on with the game after all--he ought to go
away at once. If he stayed and saw her any more he would not be able to
leave her at all. He knew he would only break his promise to Henry--tell
Sabine that he had fallen madly in love with her--implore her again to
forgive him for everything in the past and let them begin afresh. But he
was faced with the horrible thought of the anguish to Henry--Henry, his
old friend, who trusted him and who was ten times more worthy of this
dear woman than he was himself.
He had never been so full of impotency and misery in his life--not even
on that morning in June when he woke and found Sabine had left
him--defied him and gone--after everything. Pure rage had come to his
aid then--but now he had only remorse and longing--and anger with fate.
"It must all depend upon whether or no she loves Henry," he said to
himself at last--"and this I will make her tell me this very afternoon."
But when he got back and went into the garden he happened to witness a
scene.
Sabine--overcome by Lord Fordyce's goodness, had let him hold her arm
while her head was perilously near to his shoulder. It all looked very
intimate and lover-like when seen from afar. The greatest pain Michael
Arranstoun had ever experienced came into his heart, and without waiting
a second he turned on his heel and went back to the house. Here he had a
bath and changed his clothes, while his servant packed, and then, with
the help of Madame Imogen, he looked up a train. Yes, there was a fast
one which went to Paris from their nearest little town--he could just
catch it by ordering Henry's motor--this he promptly did--and leaving
the best excuses he could invent with Madame Imogen, he got in and
departed a few minutes before his hostess and Lord Fordyce came back to
tea at five.
He had written a short note to Sabine--which Nicholas handed to her.
She opened it with trembling fingers; this was all it was:
I understand--and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will
allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I
would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more--perhaps I
can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn.
Michael Arranstoun.
It was as well that Lord Fordyce had gone up to his room--for the lady
of Héronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the note
in her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her great
sitting-room.
So he had gone then--and they could have no explanation. But he had
come out of the manger--and was going to let the other animal eat the
hay.
This, however, was very poor comfort and brought no consolation on its
wings. Civilization again won the game.
For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's voluble
description of Michael's leaving--pressing business which he had
mistaken the date about--finally she had to pour out tea and smile
happily at Henry and Père Anselme.
But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the window
seat and shook all over with sobs.
Michael's note to Henry was characteristic:
I'm bored, my dear Henry--the picture of your bliss is not
inspiriting--so I am off to Paris and thence home. I hope you'll
think I behaved all right and played the game.
Took your motor to catch train.
Yrs.,
M.A.