The ball was going splendidly and everyone seemed to be in wild form.
Sabine had danced with an excitement in her veins which she could not
control. Had there been no music or lights, she might just have felt
frightfully disturbed and unhappy, but as it was she was only conscious
of excitement. Lord Fordyce was above showing jealousy, and was content
that she seemed to be enjoying herself, and did not appear unwilling to
return to him quite frequently and walk about the room or sit down.
"You are looking so supremely bewitching, my darling," he told her. "I
feel it is selfish of me to keep you away from the gay dances, you are
so young and sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself. Have you not danced
with Michael Arranstoun yet? I saw you were getting on with him
splendidly at dinner--he used to be a great dancer before he went off to
foreign parts."
"No, I have not spoken to him even," she answered, with what
indifference she could.
"What was he saying just before you left the dining-room which made you
look so haughty, dearest? He was not impertinent to you, I hope," and
Henry frowned a little at the thought.
Sabine played with her fan--she was feeling inexpressibly mean.
"No--not in the least--we were discussing someone we had both
known--long ago--she is dead now. I may have been a little annoyed at
what he said. Oh! is that a Scotch reel they are going to begin?"
How glad she was of this diversion! She knew she had been capricious
with Lord Fordyce once or twice during the evening. She was greatly
perturbed. Oh! Why had she not had the courage to be her usual, honest
self, and have told him immediately at Héronac who her husband really
was. She was in a false position, ashamed of her deceit and surrounded
by a net-work of acted lies; and all through everything there was a
passionate longing to speak to Michael again, and to be near him once
more as at dinner. She had been conscious of everything that he did--of
whom he had danced with--Moravia for several times--and now she knew
that he was not in the ball-room.
Nothing could exceed Henry's gentleness and goodness to her. He watched
her moods and put up with her caprices; that something unusual had
disturbed her he felt, but what it could be he was unable to guess.
Sabine was aware that other women were envying her for the attention
showered upon her by this much sought after man. She tried to assure
herself how fortunate she was, and now got Henry to tell her once more
of things about his home. It was in the fairest part of Kent, and they
had often talked of the wonderful garden they would have in that fertile
country sheltered from all wind, and she knew that as soon as the
divorce was over, she and Moravia would go and stay there and look over
it all, and meet his mother, which meeting had not yet been arranged.
For some unknown reason nothing would induce her to go now.
"I would rather see it for the first time, Henry, when I am engaged to
you. Now I should be an ordinary visitor--can't you understand?"
And he had said that he could. It always thrilled him when she appeared
to take an interest in his home.
They talked now about it--and how he would so love her to choose her own
rooms and have them arranged as she liked. Then he made pictures of
their life together there, and as he spoke her heart seemed to sink and
become heavier every moment, until at last she could bear no more.
It was about two dances before supper, into which she had promised to go
with him. She would get away to her room now and be alone until then.
She must pull herself together and act with common sense.
She told him that she had to settle her hair, which had become
disarranged, and saying he would wait for her he left her at the foot of
the smaller staircase, which led in a roundabout way to her and
Moravia's rooms. She had not wanted to pass through the great hall
where quantities of people were sitting out. She was just crossing the
corridor where the bachelors were lodged, when she almost ran into the
arms of Michael Arranstoun.
He stopped short and apologized--and then he said:
"I was coming to find you--there is something I must say to you. Mrs.
Forster's sitting-room is close here--will you come with me in there for
a moment; we can be alone."
Sabine hesitated. She looked up at him, so tall and masterful and
astonishingly handsome--and then she obeyed him meekly, and he led the
way into a cosy little room unlit except for a glowing mass of coals.
Michael turned on one electric lamp, and they both went over to the
chimney piece.
Intense excitement and emotion filled them, but while he tried to search
her face with his passionate eyes, she looked into the fire with lowered
head.
Then he spoke almost fiercely:
"I cannot try to guess what caused you to pretend you did not recognize
me when we met at Héronac. That first false step has created all this
hopeless tangle. I will not judge you, but only blame my own weakness in
falling in with your plan." He clasped his hands together rather wildly.
"I was so stunned with surprise to see you, and overcome with the
knowledge that I had just given Henry my word of honor that I would not
interfere with him, or make love to the lady we were going to see--a
Mrs. Howard, who was married to a ruffian of an American husband shut up
in a madhouse or home for inebriates! My God! Lies from the very
beginning," and he gave a little laugh. "I had forgotten for the moment
that you had said you would call yourself by that name, but I remembered
it afterwards. You had not decided if you would be a widow--do you
recollect?--and you wanted a coronet for your handkerchiefs and
note-paper!"
Sabine quivered under the lash of his scorn.
"You maddened me that afternoon and at dinner, too," he went on, "and I
made resolutions and then broke them. But each time I did, I was filled
with remorse and contrition about Henry--and I am ashamed to confess it,
I was madly jealous, too. At last, I saw you in the garden together and
knew I ought to go at once."
Here his voice broke a little, and he unclasped his hands. She raised
her head defiantly now, and flashed back at him:
"I understand you had admitted to being a dog in the manger--you were
always an animal of sorts!"
This told, he grew paler, and into his blue eyes there came a look of
pain.
"You have a perfect right to say that to me if you choose; it is
probably true. I am a very strong man with tremendous passions which
have always been in my race; but I am not altogether a brute--because,
although I want you myself with more intensity than I have ever wanted
anything in my life--I am going to give you up to Henry. I have been
through hell--ever since I came from France. I have been weak, too, and
could not face the final wrench--but I am determined at last to do what
is straight, and to-morrow I will instruct my lawyers to begin
proceedings, and I suppose in two months or less you will be free."
Sabine grew white and cold--her voice was hardly audible as she asked,
looking up at him:
"What made you come here to-night?"
He took a step nearer to her, while he reclasped his hands, as though he
feared that he might be tempted to touch her.
"I came--because I wanted to see you so that I could not stay away--I
came because I wished to convince myself again that you loved Henry, so
that there could be no shadow of uncertainty in what I intended to do."
"Well?"
"I saw that, whether you love him or not, you desire that I shall think
that you do--and so at dinner I played for my own pleasure, the die
being cast, for something else had occurred before dinner which makes it
of no consequence to my decision whether you do or do not love him now.
It is Henry's great love for you which is the factor, because to part
from you he says would end his life. I could not commit the frightful
cruelty and dishonor of upsetting his plans, since you are originally to
blame for concealing the truth from him, and I am to blame for abetting
you. He trusts us both as you said."
Sabine was trembling; her whole fabric of peace and happiness in the
future seemed to be falling to pieces like a pack of cards.
She could only look at Michael with piteous violet eyes out of which all
the defiance had gone. Her slender figure swayed a little, and she
leaned against the mantelpiece.
"My God!" he said, with a fresh clenching of his strong hands, "I would
not have believed I could have suffered so. As it is the last time we
shall ever talk to one another perhaps--I want you to know about
things--to hear it all. I would like to ask you again to forgive me for
long ago, but I suppose you feel that is past forgiveness?" His face had
a look of pleading; then he went on as she did not respond. "If you had
not left me, I would soon have made you forget that you had been angry,
as I thought indeed I had already done when you seemed to be contented
at least in my arms. But I would have caressed you into complete
forgetfulness in time--" here his voice vibrated with a deep note of
tenderness, which thrilled her--but yet she could not speak.
"And what had begun just in mad passion would have grown into real love
between us--for we were made for one another Sabine--did you never
think of that?--just the same sort of natures--vigorous and all alive
and passionate, with the same joy of life in our blood. We would have
been supremely happy. But I was so frightfully arrogant in those days,
and when I spoke I was deadly ashamed of myself, and then furious with
you for daring to defy me and going after all. No one had ever disobeyed
me. But it was shame really which made me agree to join Latimer
Berkeley's expedition at once--the letter came by the early post. I
wanted to get right away and try to forget what I had done--and since
you had expressed your will, I just left you to stand by it." He leaned
upon the mantelpiece now and buried his face in his hands.
"Oh, how wrong I was! Because you were so young I should have known that
you could not judge--and perhaps acted hastily in that sort of reaction
which always comes to one after passion--and I should have followed you
and brought you back."
His tones shook with anguish now. "Well, I am punished--and so all that
is left for us to do is to say good-bye, my dear, and let us each go our
ways. You, at least, are not suffering as I am--because you do not
care."
A little sob came in Sabine's throat, and she could not reply. She could
only take in the splendor of his figure and his grace as he leaned there
with dark bent head. And so, in a silence that seemed to throb and
thrill, they stood near together for a few moments with hearts at
breaking point.
Then he controlled himself; he must go at once or he could no longer
answer for what he might do. She looked so sweet and sorrowful standing
close to his side, her violet eyes lowered so that their long lashes
made a shadow upon her dimpled cheek.
Intense magnetic attraction drew them nearer and nearer.
"Sabine!" he cried at last, hoarsely, as though the words were torn from
his tortured heart. "There is something about you which tells me that
you do not love Henry--that he has never made you feel--as I once made
you feel, and could make you feel again." He stretched out his arms in
pain. "The temptation is frightful--terrible--just to kiss you once
more--Darling--Oh! I cannot bear it. I must go!" and he took a step away
from her.
But _the Moment_ for Sabine had come; she could resist its force no
more, every nerve in her whole body was quivering--every unknown, though
half-guessed emotion was stirring her soul. Her whole being seemed to be
convulsed in one concentrated desire. The reality had materialized the
echoes she had often dimly felt from that night of long ago.
The wild passion which she had feared, and only that very evening had
repudiated as being an impossible experience for her, had now overtaken
her, and she could struggle no more.
"Michael!" she whispered breathlessly, and held out her arms.
With a cry of joy he clasped her to him in a fierce ecstasy. All the
pent-up feelings in both their souls let loose at last.
It was a moment which caused time and place and all other things to be
forgotten in a glory as great as though eternity had come.
"My darling, my darling!" he murmured, kissing her hair and brow and
eyelids. "Oh! the hideous cruelty that it is all too late and this must
be good-bye."
But Sabine clung to him half sobbing, telling him she could not bear it;
he must not leave her now. And so they stood clasped together, trembling
with love and misery.
"Darling," at last he besought her, while he unclasped her tender hands
from round his neck. "Darling, do not tempt me--it is frightful pain,
but I must keep my word. You had reason once to think that I was an
uncontrollable brute, but you shall not be able to do so any more. I
would never respect myself--or you--again if I let you make me faithless
to Henry now. It is cruel sorrow, but we cannot think of ourselves; you
know, we used too lightly for our own ends what should have been an
awfully sacred tie. Do you remember, Sabine, we swore to God to love and
be faithful forever--not meaning a word we said--and now we are
punished--" A great sob shook his deep voice.
"Darling child--I love you madly, madly, Sabine--dear little one--but
you and I are just driftwood, floating down the tide--not like Henry,
who is a splendid fellow of great use to England. It is impossible that
his whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness.
Darling--" and he paused and drew her to him again fondly. "It is our
own fault. We have let the situation develop through indecision and, I
expect, wounded vanity and weakness--and now we must have strength to
abide by our words. Henry isn't young like we are, you see. I honestly
believe it would knock him right out if anything went wrong."
But Sabine clung to him still. She could think of nothing but that she
loved him, and that he was her mate and her husband, and why must she be
torn from his side for the happiness of any other man.
She was in an agony of grief. And then suddenly back to her came the
words of Père Anselme, heavy as the stroke of doom. Yes, she had taken
matters into her own hands and presumed to direct fate, and now all that
she could do was to be true to herself and to her word. Michael was
right; they must say good-bye. Henry must not be sacrificed.
She raised her pitiful face from his breast where it was buried, and he
framed it in both his hands, and it would have been difficult to
recognize his bold eyes, so filled were they with tenderness and love.
"Sabine," he commanded, fondly, "tell me that, after all, you have
forgiven me for making you stay that night. You know that we were
perfectly happy at the end of it, and it will be such pain for me to
have to remember all the rest of my life that you hold resentment.
Darling, if only you had stayed! Oh! I would have cherished you and
petted you," here he smoothed her hair, and murmured love words in her
ear with his wonderful charm, until Sabine felt that neither heaven nor
earth nor anything else mattered but only he.
"Sweetheart," he went on, "we have got to part in a moment, but I just
must know if you love me a little in spite of everything. I _must know_,
my darling little girl."
Then he held her to him again with immense tenderness, even in this
moment of agonized parting exulting in the intoxication of love he saw
that he had created in her eyes. There was no wile for the enslaving of
a woman's heart that he was not master of. The question as to whether he
ought to have employed them on this occasion is quite another matter,
and not for our consideration! He was doing what he thought was the only
honorable thing possible, giving up this glorious happiness, and he was
merely a strong, passionate human being after all. They were going to
part for the rest of their lives; he must make her tell him that she
loved him, he wanted to hear her say the words.
"Sabine--little darling--answer me," he pleaded.
She flung her arms round his neck, her whole body vibrating with
emotion.
"I love you absolutely, Michael," she cried, "and I have always forgiven
you--I was mad to leave you, and I have longed often to go back. Oh! I
would sooner be dead than not to be your wife."
They both were white now, the misery was so great. He knew he must go at
once, or he could never go at all. They were too racked with present
suffering to think what the future could contain, or of the growing
agony of the long weary days and how they could ever bear them.
"My God, this is past endurance!" Michael exclaimed frantically. And
after a wild embrace, he almost flung her from him. Then, as she
staggered to a sofa she heard the door close, and knew that chapter of
her life was done.
She sat there for a while gazing into the fire, too stunned with misery
even to think; but presently everything came to her with merciless
clearness. How small she had been all along! Instead of waiting until
she heard the truth, she had let a wretched paragraph in a newspaper
inflame her wounded vanity, so that she gave her promise to Henry there
and then--putting the rope round her neck with her own hands. And
afterwards, instead of being brave and true, wounded vanity again had
caused her to tighten the knot. She remembered Henry's words when he
had implored her to tell him what were the actual wishes of her
heart--and how she had cut off all retreat by her answer. She remembered
all his goodness to her and how she had accepted it as her due, making
him care for her more and more as each day came.
"I have been a hopeless coward," she moaned, "a paltry, vain, hopeless
coward. I should have owned Michael was my husband immediately. Henry
could have got over it then, and now we might be happy--but it is too
late; there is nothing to be done----!"
Then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly. "Oh, my love,
my love--and I did not even now tell you all."
The clock struck one--supper would be beginning and she must go down. If
Michael could bear this agony and behave like a gentleman, she also must
play her part with dignity. Henry would be waiting at the bottom of the
stairs.
She went rapidly to her room and removed all traces of emotion, and then
she returned to the hall by the way she had come.
"I was growing quite anxious, dearest," Lord Fordyce told her, as he
advanced to meet her when she came down the stairs. "I feared you were
ill, and was just coming to find you. Let us go straight in to supper
now--you look rather pale. I must take care of you and give you some
champagne," and he placed her hand in his arm fondly and led her along.
[Illustration: "'He is often in some scrape--something must have
culminated to-night'"]
They found chairs which had been kept for them at a centre table, near
their hostess and Moravia, and here they sat down. Michael was nowhere
in sight, but presently he came in with one of the house-party, and Mrs.
Forster beckoned them to her--and thus it happened that he was again at
Sabine's side. His eyes had a reckless, stony stare in them, and he
confined his conversation to the lady he had taken in. And Henry, who
was watching him, whispered to Sabine:
"He is often in some scrape, Michael--something must have culminated
to-night. I have never seen him looking so haggard and pale."
Sabine drank down her glass of champagne; she thought she could no
longer support the situation. She almost felt she hated Henry and his
devotion,--it was paralyzing her, suffocating her--crushing her life.
Michael never spoke to her--beyond a casual word--and at length they all
went back to the ball-room, where an extra was being played--Michael,
for a moment, standing by her side. Then a sudden madness came to them
as their eyes met, and he held out his arm.
"This is my dance, I think, Mrs. Howard," he said with careless
sangfroid, and he whirled her away into the middle of the room. They
both were perfect dancers and never stopped in their wild career until
the music ended. It was a two-step, and all the young people clapped
for the band to go on. So once more they started with the throng. They
had not spoken a single word; it was a strange comfort to them just to
be together--half anguish, half bliss--but as the last bars died away,
Michael whispered in her ear:
"I am going to say good-night to Rose. She is accustomed to my ways. I
have ordered my motor, and I am going home to-night--I cannot bear it
another single minute. If I stayed until to-morrow I should break my
word. I love you to absolute distraction--Good-bye," and without waiting
for her to answer he left her close to Henry and turning was lost in the
crowd.
Suddenly the whole room reeled to Sabine, the lights danced in her eyes,
and a rushing sound came in her ears. She would have fallen forward only
Lord Fordyce caught her arm, while he cried, in solicitous
consternation:
"My dearest, you have danced too much. You feel faint--let me take you
out of all this into the cool."
But Sabine pulled herself together and assured him she was all
right--she had been giddy for a moment--he need not distress himself;
and as they walked into the conservatory she protested vehemently that
she had never been at so delightful a ball.