When the first moment of ecstasy in the knowledge that they were indeed
given back to each other was over, Michael drew Sabine to the window
seat where she had been crouching only that short while before in silent
misery.
"Sweetheart," he entreated, "now you have got to tell me everything--do
you understand, Sabine--every single thing from the first moment in the
chapel when we made those vows until now when we are going to keep them.
I want to know everything, darling child--all your thoughts and what you
did with your life--and when you hated me and when you loved me----"
They sat down on the velvet cushions and Sabine nestled into his arms.
"It is so difficult, Michael," she cooed, "how can I begin? I was
sillier and more ignorant than any other girl of seventeen could
possibly be, I think--don't you? Oh! don't let us speak of that part--I
only remember that when you kissed me first in the chapel some kind of
strange emotion came to me--then I was frightened----"
"But not after a while," he interpolated, something of rapturous
triumph in his fond glance, while he caressed and smoothed her hair, as
her little head lay against his shoulder, "I thought you had forgiven me
before I went to sleep."
"Perhaps I had--I did not know myself--only that there in the gray dawn
everything seemed perfectly awful and horror and terror came upon me
again, and I had only one wild impulse to rush away--surely you can
understand--" she paused.
"Go on, sweetheart," he commanded, "I shall not let you off one detail.
I love to make you tell me every single thing"--and he took her hand and
played with her wedding ring, but not taking it off, while Sabine
thrilled with happiness.
"Well--you did not wake--and so presently I got into the sitting-room,
and at last found the certificate--and just as I was going out of the
door on to the balcony I heard you call my name sleepily--and for one
second I nearly went back--but I did not, and got safely away and to the
hotel!"
"Think of my not waking!" Michael exclaimed. "If only I had--you would
never have been allowed to go--it is maddening to remember what that
sleep cost--but how did you manage at the hotel?"
"It was after five o'clock and the side door was open into the yard. Not
a soul saw me, and I carried out my original plan. I think when I was in
the train I had already begun to regret bitterly, but it was too late
to go back--and then next day your letter came to me at Mr. Parsons' and
all my pride was up in arms!"
Here Michael held her very tight.
"Oh, what a brute I was to write that letter," he cried.
"All I wanted then was to go away and forget all about you and
everything and have lots of nice clothes and join my friend Moravia in
Paris. You see, I was still just a silly ignorant child. Mr. Parsons got
me a good maid who is with me still, and he agreed at last to my taking
the name of Howard--I thought if I kept the Arranstoun everyone would
know."
"But what did you intend to do, darling, with your life. We were both
crazy, of course, you to go--and I to let you."
"I had no concrete idea. Just to see the world and buy what I wanted,
and sit up late--and not have to obey any rules, I think--and underneath
there was a great excitement all the time in the thought of looking
perfectly splendid in being a grand grown-up lady when you came
back--for of course I believed then that we must meet again."
"Well, what changed all that and made you become engaged to Henry, you
wicked little thing!" and Michael kissed her fondly--"Was it because I
did not come back?--but you could have cabled to me at any time."
An enchanting confusion crept over Sabine--she hesitated--she began to
speak, then stopped and finally buried her face in his coat.
"What is it, darling?" he asked with almost a tone of anxiety in his
voice. "Did you have some violent flirtation with someone at this stage?
and you think I shall be annoyed--but indeed I shall not, because I do
fully realize that whatever you did was my fault for leaving you
alone--Tell me, Sabine, you sweet child."
"No--it wasn't that----"
"Well--then?"
"Well--then I was--terrified--it was my old maid, Simone, who told me
what had happened--I was still too ignorant to understand things."
"Told you what? What wretched story did the old woman invent about me?"
Michael's eyes were haughty--that she could listen to stories from a
maid!
Sabine clasped her hands together--she was deeply moved.
"Oh, Michael--you are stupid! How can I possibly tell you--if you won't
understand."
Then she jumped up suddenly and swiftly brought her blue-despatch box
from beside her writing-table and unlocked it with her bracelet
key--while Michael with an anxious, puzzled face watched her intently.
She sat down again beside him when she had found what she sought--the
closed blue leather case which she had looked at so many times.
"If you are going to show me some brute's photograph I simply refuse to
look," Michael said. "All that part of your life is over and we are
going to begin afresh, darling one, no matter what you did."
But she crept nearer to him as she opened the case--and her voice was
full and sweet, shy tenderness as she blurted out:
"It is not a brute's photograph, Michael, it is the picture of your own
little son."
"My God!" cried Michael, the sudden violent emotion making him very
pale. "Sabine--how dared you keep this from me all these years--I--"
Then he seized her in his arms and for a few seconds they could neither
of them speak--his caresses were so fierce. At last he exclaimed
brokenly, "Sabine--with the knowledge of this between us how could you
ever have even contemplated belonging to another man--Oh! if I had only
known. Where is--my son?"
"You must listen, Michael, to everything," Sabine whispered, "then you
will understand--I was simply terrified when I realized at last, and
only wanted to go back to you and be comforted, so I wrote a letter at
once to tell you, and as Mr. Parsons was in England again I sent it to
him to have it put safely into your hands. But by then you had gone
right off to China, and Mr. Parsons sent the letter back to me, it was
useless to forward it to you, he said, you might not get it for a year."
Michael strained her to his heart once more, while his eyes grew wet.
"Oh, my poor little girl--all alone, how frightfully cruel it was, no
wonder you hated me then, and could not forgive me even afterward."
"I did not hate you--I was only terrified and longing to rush off
somewhere and hide--so Simone suggested San Francisco--the furthest off
she knew, and we hurried over there and then I was awfully ill, and when
my baby was born I very nearly died."
Michael was wordless, he could only kiss her. "That is what made him so
delicate--my wretchedness and rushing about," she went on, "and so I was
punished because, after three months, God took him back again--my dear
little one--just when I was beginning to grow comforted and to love him.
He was exactly like you, Michael, with the same blue eyes, and I
thought--I thought, we should go back to Arranstoun and finish our
estrangements and be happy again--the three of us--when you did come
home--I grew radiant and quite well--" Here two big tears gathered in
her violet eyes and fell upon Michael's hand, and he shivered with the
intensity of his feelings as he held her close.
"We had made our plans to go East--but my little sweetheart caught cold
somehow--and then he died--Oh! I can't tell you the grief of it,
Michael, I was quite reckless after that--it was in June and I did not
care what happened to me for a long while. I just wanted to get back to
Moravia, not knowing she had left Paris for Rome--and then I crossed in
July--and came here to Brittany and saw and bought Héronac as I told you
before. I heard then that you had not returned from China or made any
sign--and it seemed all so cruel and ruthless, and as there were no
longer any ties between us I thought that I would crush you from my life
and forget you, and that I would educate myself and make something of my
mind."
"Oh, my dear, my dear little girl," Michael sighed. "If you knew how all
this is cutting me to the heart to think of the awful brute I have
been--to think of you bearing things all alone--I somehow never realized
the possibility of this happening--but once or twice when it did cross
my mind I thought of course you would have cabled to me if so--I am
simply appalled now at the casual selfishness of my behavior--can you
ever forgive me, Sabine?"
She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, now
soft and glistening with tears.
"Of course I can forgive you, Michael--I belong to you, you see----"
So when he had kissed her enough in gratitude and contrition he besought
her to go on.
"The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you--and my life
grew so peaceful with the Père Anselme and Madame Imogen here at
Héronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies kept
developing for me. I seemed to grow up and realize things and the
memory of you grew less and less--but society never held out any
attractions for me--only to be with Moravia. I had taken almost a
loathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory,
not a single one attracted me in the least degree--until this summer at
Carlsbad when we met Henry. And he appeared so good and true and
kind--and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guiding
hand to greatness of purpose in life--I liked him--but I must tell you
the truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am," here she held
tightly to Michael's hand--"I do not think I would ever have promised
him at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in the
paper that you were at Ostende--with Daisy Van der Horn. That
exasperated me--even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent to
you after five years. I had never seen your name in the paper before, it
was the first indication I had had that you had come home--and the whole
thing wounded my pride. I felt that I must ask for my freedom from you
before you possibly could ask for yours from me. So I told Henry that
very night that I had made up my mind."
"Oh! you dear little goose," Michael interrupted. "Not one of those
ladies mattered to me more than the other--they were merely to pass the
time of day, of no importance whatever."
"I dare say--but I am telling you my story, Michael--Well, Henry was so
wonderful, so good--and it got so that he seemed to mean everything
fine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less and
less to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite--except for the
irritation I felt about Daisy--and then by that extraordinary turn of
fate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the name
of the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurried
postscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one--I saw you both
arrive from the lodge, and when I heard the tones of your voice--Ah!
well, you can imagine what it meant!"
"No, I want to know, little darling--what did it mean?" and Michael
looked into her eyes with fond command.
"It made my heart beat and my knees tremble and a strange thrill came
over me--I ought to have known then that to feel like that did not mean
indifference--oughtn't I?"
"I expect so--but what a moment it was when we did meet, you must come
to that!"
"Arrogant, darling creature you are, Michael! You love to make me
recount all these things," and Sabine looked so sweetly mutinous that he
could not remain tranquilly listening for the moment, but had to make
passionate love to her--whispering every sort of endearment into her
little ear--though presently she continued the recital of her story
again:
"I stood there in the lodge after the shock of seeing you had passed,
and I began to burn with every sort of resentment against you--I had had
all the suffering and you had gone free--and I just felt I wanted to
punish you by pretending not to know you! Think of it! How small--and
yet there underneath I felt your old horribly powerful charm!"
"Oh, you did, did you! You darling," Michael exclaimed--and what do you
suppose I felt--if we had only rushed there and then into each other's
arms!"
"I was quite prepared for you in the garden--and did not I play my part
well! You got quite white, you know with surprise--and I felt
exquisitely excited. I could see you had come in all innocence--having
probably forgotten our joking arrangement that I should call myself Mrs.
Howard--I could not think why you did not speak out and denounce me. It
hurt my pride, I thought it was because you wanted to divorce me and
marry Daisy that you were indifferent about it. I did not know it was
because you had given your word of honor to Henry not to interfere with
the woman he loved. Then after dinner Henry told me you knew that he and
I were practically engaged--that stung me deeply--it seemed to prove
your indifference--so things developed and we met in the
garden--Michael, was not that a wonderful hour! How we both acted. If
you had indicated by word or look that you remembered me, I could not
have kept it up, we should have had to tell Henry then--we were playing
at cross-purposes and my pride was wounded."
"I understand, sweetheart, go on."
"Well, I was miserable at luncheon, and then when you went out in the
boat--being with you was like some intoxicating drink--I was more
excited than I had ever been in my life. I was horrid toward Henry, I
would not own it to myself, but I felt him to be the stumbling block in
the way. So I was extra nice to him to convince myself--and I let him
hold my arm, which I had never done before and you saw that in the
garden. I suppose--and thought I loved him and so went--that was nice of
you, Michael--but stupid, wasn't it!"
"Ridiculously stupid, everything I did was stupid that separated you
from me. The natural action of my character would have been just to
seize you again and carry you off resisting or unresisting to
Arranstoun, but some idiotic sentiment of honor to Henry held me."
"I cried a little, I believe, when I got your note--I went up into this
room and opened this despatch-box and read your horrid letter again--and
I believe I looked into the blue leather case, too"--here she opened it
once more--and they both examined it tenderly. "Of course you can't see
anything much in this little photograph--but he really was so like you,
Michael, and when I looked at it again after seeing you, I could have
sobbed aloud, I wanted you so----"
"My dear, dear, little girl----"
"Henry had told me casually that afternoon your story, and how he had
not stayed at Arranstoun for the wedding because he thought your action
so unfair to the bride!--and how that now you felt rather a dog in the
manger about her. That infuriated me! Can't you understand I had only
one desire, to show you that I did not care since you had gone off.
Henry was simply angelic to me--and asked me so seriously if he could
really make me happy, if not he would release me then. I felt if he
would take me, all bruised and restless, and comfort me and bring me
peace, I did indeed wish to be his wife--and if nothing more had
happened we might have grown quite happy from then, but we went to
England--and I saw you again--and--Oh! well, Michael, need I tell you
any more? You know how we fenced and how at last we could not bear
it--up in Mrs. Forster's room!"
"It was the most delirious and most unhappy moment of my life, darling."
"And now it is all over--isn't Henry a splendid man? I told him all this
yesterday--the Père Anselme had suggested to him to come and ask me for
the truth. He behaved too nobly--but I did not know what he intended to
do, nor if it were too late to stop the divorce or anything, so I was
miserable."
"You shall not be so any more--we will go back to Arranstoun at once,
darling, and begin a new and glorious life together. From every point of
view that is the best thing to be done. We could not possibly go on all
staying here, it would be grotesque--and I am quite determined that I
will never leave you again--do you hear, Sabine?" And he turned her face
and made her look into his eyes.
"Yes, I hear!--and know that you were always the most masterful
creature!"
"Do you want to change me?"
But Sabine let herself be clasped in his arms while she abandoned
herself to the deep passionate joy she felt.
"No--Michael--I would not alter you in one little bit, we are neither of
us very good or very clever, but I just love you and you love me--and we
are mates! There!"
* * * * *
They carried out their plans and arrived at Arranstoun Castle a few days
later. Michael wired to have everything ready for their reception and
both experienced the most profound emotion when first they entered
Michael's sitting-room again.
"There is the picture, darling, that you fell through and--here is Binko
waiting to receive and welcome you!"
The mass of fat wrinkles got up from his basket and condescended, after
showing a wild but suppressed joy at the sight of his master, to be
re-introduced to his mistress who expressed due appreciation of his
beauty.
"That old dog has been my only confidant about you, Sabine, ever since I
came back--he could tell you how frantic I was, couldn't you, Binko?"
Binko slobbered his acquiescence and then the tea was brought in; Sabine
sat down to pour it out in the very chair she had sat in long ago. She
was taller now, but still her little feet did not reach the ground.
The most ecstatic happiness was permeating them both, and it all seemed
like a divine dream to be there together and alone. They reconstructed
every incident of their first meeting in a fond duet--each supplying a
link, and they talked of all their new existence together and what it
would mean, and presently Michael drew Sabine toward the chapel where
the lights were all lit.
"Darling," he whispered, "I want to make new vows of love and tenderness
to you here, because to-night is our real wedding night--I want you to
forget that other one and blot it right out."
But Sabine moved very close to him as she clung to his arm, and her
whole soul was in her eyes as she answered:
"I do not want to forget it. I know very well that I had begun to love
you even then. But, Michael--do you remember that undecorated window
which you told me had been left so probably for you to embellish as an
expiatory offering, because rapine and violence were in the blood--Well,
dear love, I think we must put up the most beautiful stained glass
together there--in memory of our little son. For we are equally to blame
for his brief life and death."
But Michael was too moved to speak and could only clasp her hand.
THE END