Chapter 21

When Lord Fordyce found himself alone, it felt as if life itself must
leave him, the agony of pain was so great, the fiendish irony of
circumstances. It almost seemed that each time he had intended to do a
good thing, he had been punished. He had left Arranstoun for the best
motive, and so had not seen Sabine and thus saved himself from future
pain; he had taken Michael to Heronac out of kindly friendship, and this
had robbed him of his happiness. But, awful as the discovery was now, it
was not half so terrible as it would have been if the truth had only
come to him later, when Sabine had become his wife. He must be thankful
for that. Things had always been inevitable; it was plain to be
understood that she had loved Michael all along, and nothing he
personally could have done with all his devotion could have changed this
fact. He ought to have known that it was hopeless and that he was only
living in a fool's paradise. Never once had he seen the light in her
eyes for himself which sprang there even at the mention of Michael's
name. What was this tremendous power this man possessed to so deeply
affect women, to so greatly charm every one? Was it just "it," as the
Princess had said? Anguish now fell upon Henry; there was no consolation
anywhere to be found.

He went over again all the details of the story he had heard, and
himself filled up the links in the chain. How brutal it was of Michael
to have induced her to stay--even if she remained of her own accord--and
then the frightful thoughtless recklessness of letting her go off
afterwards just because he was angry! Wild fury blazed up against his
old friend. The poor darling little girl to be left to suffer all alone!
Oh! how tender and passionately devoted he would have been under the
same circumstances. Would Michael ever make her happy or take proper
care of her? He paced his room, his mind racked with pain. Every single
turn of events came back to him, and his own incredible blindness. How
had he been so unseeing? How, to begin with, had he not recalled the
name of Sabine as being the one he had read long ago in the paper as
that of the girl whom Michael had gone through the ceremony of marriage
with? It had faded completely from his memory. Everything seemed to have
combined to lead him on to predestined disaster and misery--even in
Sabine's and Michael's combining to keep the matter secret from him not
to cause him pain--all had augmented the suffering now. If--but there
was no good in contemplating ifs--what he had to do was to think clearly
as to what would be the wisest course to secure his darling's
happiness. That must be his first consideration. After that, he must
face his own cruel fate with what courage he could command.

Her happiness could only come through the divorce proceedings being
stopped at once, and in her being free to go back to the man whom she
loved. Then the aspect that Michael had been willing to do a really fine
thing for the sake of friendship struck him--perhaps he was worthy of
Sabine, after all; and they were young and absolutely suited to one
another. No, the wickedness would have been if he, whose youth had
passed, had claimed her and come between. He was only now going through
the same agony his friend must have done, and he had a stronger motive
to help him, in the wish to secure the joy of this adored woman, whereas
Michael knew he was condemning her to sorrow as well as himself, and had
been strong enough to do it simply from honor and friendship. No, he had
no right to think of him as brutal or not fine; and now it was for him,
Henry, to bring back happiness to his darling and to his old friend.

He sat down in a chair beside the fire and set himself to think. To have
to take some decided course came as a relief. He would go out into the
village and telegraph to Michael to come to H�ronac at once. He was in
Paris, staying at the Ritz, he knew; he could be there to-morrow--on
Christmas Day! Surely that was well, when peace and good-will towards
men should be over all the earth--and he, Henry, would meet him at the
house of the P�re Anselme and explain all to him, and then take him back
to Sabine. He would not see her again until then.

He found telegraph forms on his writing-table and rapidly wrote out his
message. "Come immediately by first train, meet me at house of P�re
Anselme, a matter of gravest importance to you and Sabine," and he
signed it "Fordyce." Then he firmly controlled himself and went off with
it into the night.

The cold air struck his face and confronted him with its fierceness; the
wind was getting up; to-morrow the waves would again be rough.

The village was not far away, and he soon had reached his goal and sent
the telegram. Then he stopped at the _presbyt�re_. He must speak once
more to the priest. The P�re Anselme led him in to his bare little
parlor and drew him to the warm china stove. It was only two hours since
they had parted, but Lord Fordyce looked like an old man.

"I have come to tell you, my Father," he said, "that I know all of the
story now, and it is terrible enough; but I want you to help me to
secure her happiness. Michael Arranstoun is her husband, as you
supposed, and she loves him." The old priest nodded his head
comprehendingly, and Henry went on. "They only parted to save me pain.
It was a tremendous sacrifice which, of course, I cannot accept. So now
I have sent for him, and I want you to let me meet him here at your
house, and explain everything to him to-morrow before he sees her. I
hope, if he gets my telegram in time, he will catch the train from Paris
at midnight to-night; it gets in about nine in the morning. Then they
can be happy on Christmas Day."

"You have done nobly, my son," and the Pere Anselme lifted his hand in
blessing. "It is very merciful that this has been in time. You will not
be permitted to suffer beyond your strength since you have done well.
The good God is beyond all things, just. My home is at your service--And
how is she, our dear Dame d'Heronac? Does she know that her husband will
come?"

"She knows nothing. I told her we should settle all questions to-morrow.
She offered to keep her word to me, the dear child."

"And she told you the whole story? She had the courage? Yes? That was
fine of her, because she has never spoken of all her sorrows directly,
even to me."

"She told me everything, Father. There are no secrets any more; and her
story is a pitiful one, because she was so young."

"It is possible it has been well for them," the priest said
meditatively, looking into the glowing fire in the stove whose door he
had opened. "They were too young and undisciplined at first for
happiness--they have come through so much suffering now they will cling
to each other and joy and not let it slip from their hands. She is more
suited to such a one as the Seigneur of Arranstoun than any other--there
is a vigor of youth in her which must find expression. And it is
something to be of noble blood, after all." Here he turned and looked
contemplatively at Henry. "It makes one able to surmount anguish and
remain a gentleman with manners, even at such a cruel crisis as this.
You have all my deep understanding and sympathy, my son. I, too, have
passed that way, and know your pain. But consolation will come. I find
it here in the cure of souls--you will find it in your England, leading
your fellow countrymen to finer ends. It is not for all of us, the glory
of the dawn or the meridian, but we can all secure a sunset of blessed
peace if we will." And then, as Henry wrung his thin old hand, he
muttered with tenderness, "Good-night, and _pax vobiscum_," while a
moisture glistened in his keen black eyes.

And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into his
little room, this thought going on with him:

"A great gentleman--though my Dame d'Heronac will be happier with the
fierce one. Youth must have its day, and all is well."

But Henry, striding in the dark with the sound of the rushing sea for
company, found no consolation.

When he got back to the chateau and was going up the chief staircase to
his room, he met Moravia coming down. She had just left Sabine and knew
the outlines of what had happened. Her astonishment and distress had
been great, but underneath, as she was only human, there was some sense
of personal upliftment; she could try to comfort the disconsolate lover
at least. Sabine had given her to understand that nothing was finally
settled between herself and Henry, but Moravia felt there could be only
one end; she knew he was too unselfish to hold Sabine for an instant,
once he understood that she would rather be free; so it was in the
character of fond friend that she put out her hand and grasped his in
silent sympathy.

"Henry," she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, "my heart
is breaking for you. Can I do anything?"

He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being a
singularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love and
solicitude in her face, and took and held her white fingers.

"You are always so good to me. But there is nothing to be done."

She slid her other hand into his arm and drew him on into the little
sitting-room which was always set apart for her, close to her room.

"I am going to take care of you for the next hour, anyway--you look
frozen," she told him. "I shall make you sit in the big chair by the
fire while I give you something to drink. It is only half-past six."

Then with fond severity she pushed him into a comfortable _bergere_,
and, leaving him, gave an order to her maid in the next room to bring
some brandy. But before it came Moravia went back again, and drawing a
low stool sat down almost at Henry's feet.

The fire and her gentleness were soothing to him, as he lay there
huddled in the chair. The physical reaction was upon him from the shock
and he felt almost as though he were going to faint.

Moravia watched him anxiously for some time without speaking--he was so
very pale. Then she got up quickly when the maid brought in the tray,
and pouring him out some brandy she brought it over and knelt down by
his side.

"Drink this," she commanded kindly. "I shall not stir until you do."

Henry took the glass with nerveless fingers and gulped down the liquid
as he was bid, but although she took the glass from him she did not get
off her knees; indeed, when she had pushed it on to the tray near her,
she came closer still and laid her cheek against his coat, taking his
right hand and chafing it between her own to bring back some life into
him, while she kept up a murmured flow of sweet sympathy--as one would
talk to an unhappy child.

Henry was not actually listening to her, but the warmth and the great
vibrations of love coming from her began to affect him unconsciously,
so that he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his side.

"Henry," she whispered with a little gasp in her breath, "I would take
all pain away from you, dear, if I could, but I can't do anything, only
just pet and love you into feeling better. After all, everything passes
in time. I thought I should never get over the death of my husband,
Girolamo, and now I don't care a bit--in fact, I only care about you and
want to make you less unhappy."

The Princess thoroughly believed in La Rochefoucauld's maxim with the
advice that people were more likely to take to a new passion when still
agitated by the rests of the old one than if they were completely cured.
She intended, now that she was released from all honor to her friend, to
do her very uttermost to draw Henry to herself, and thought it much
wiser to begin to strike when the iron was hot.

Henry did not answer her; he merely pressed her hand, while he thought
how un-English, her action was, and how very kind. She was certainly the
dearest woman he had ever met--beyond Sabine.

Moravia was not at all discouraged, but continued to rub his hands,
first one and then the other, while he remained passive under her touch.

"Sabine is perfectly crushed with all this," she went on. "I have just
left her. She does not know what you mean to do, but I am sure I can
guess. You mean to give her back to Mr. Arranstoun--and it will be much
better. She has always been in love with him, I believe, and would never
have agreed to try to arrange for a divorce if she had not been awfully
jealous about Daisy Van der Horn. I remember now telling her quite
innocently of the reports about them in Paris before we went to England,
and now that I come to think of it, I noticed she was rather spiteful
over it at the time."

Henry did not answer, so she continued, in a frank, matter-of-fact way:

"You can imagine what a strange character Sabine has when I tell you, in
all these years of our intimate friendship she never has told me a word
of her story until just now. She was keeping it all in to herself--I
can't think why."

Henry did speak at last, but his words came slowly. "She wanted to
forget, poor little girl, and that was the best way to bury it all out
of sight."

"There you are quite wrong," returned Moravia, now seated upon her
footstool again, very close, with her elbows propped on Henry's knees,
while she still held his hands and intermittently caressed them with her
cheek. "That is the way to keep hurts burning and paining forever,
fostering them all in the dark--it is much better to speak about them
and let the sun get in on them and take all their sorrow away. That is
why I would not let you be by yourself now, dear friend, as I suppose
one of your reserved countrymen would have done. I just determined to
make you talk about it, and to realize that there are lots of lovely
other things to comfort you, and that you are not all alone."

Henry was strangely touched at her kind common sense; he already felt
better and not so utterly crushed out with despair. He told her how
sweet and good she was and what a true, unselfish woman--but Moravia
shook her head.

"I am not a bit; it is purely interested, because I am so awfully fond
of you myself. I _love_ to pet you--there!" and she laughed softly, so
happy to see that she had been able even to make this slight effect, for
she saw the color had come back in a measure to his face, and her keen
brain told her that this was the right tack to go upon--not to be too
serious or show any sentiment, but just to use a sharp knife and cut
round all the wound and then pour honey and balm into it herself.

"You and Sabine would never really have been happy together," she now
told him. "You were much too subservient to her and let her order you
about. She would have grown into a bully. Now, Mr. Arranstoun won't
stand a scrap of nonsense, I am sure; he would make any woman obey
him--if necessary by using brute force! They are perfectly suited to one
another, and very soon you will realize it and won't care. Do you
remember how we talked at dinner that night at Ebbsworth about women
having to go through a stage in their lives sooner or later when they
adored just strength in a man and wanted a master? Well, I wondered then
if Sabine had passed hers, but I was afraid of hurting you, so I would
not say that I rather thought she had not."

"Oh, I wish you had!" Henry spoke at last. "And yet, no--the whole thing
has been inevitable from the first, I see it plainly. The only thing is,
if I had found it out sooner it might have saved Sabine pain. But it is
not too late, thank God--the divorce proceedings can be quashed; it
would have been a little ironical if she had had to marry him again."

"Yes," Moravia agreed. "Now, if we could only get him to come here
immediately, we could explain it all to him and make him wire to his
lawyers at once."

"I have already sent for him--I think he will arrive to-morrow at nine."

"How glorious! It was just the dear, splendid thing you would do,
Henry," Moravia cried, getting up from her knees. "But we won't tell
Sabine; we will just let her mope there up in her room, feeling as
miserable as she deserves to be for not knowing her own mind. We will
all have a nice dinner--no, that won't be it--you and I will dine alone
here, up in this room, and Papa can talk to Madame Imogen. In this
house, thank goodness, we can all do what we like, and I am not going to
leave you, Henry, until we have got to say good-night. I don't care
whether you want me or not--I have just taken charge of you, and I mean
you to do what I wish--there!"

And she crept closer to him again and laid her face upon his breast, so
that his cheek was resting upon her soft dark hair. Great waves of
comfort flowed to Henry. This sweet woman loved him, at all events. So
he put his arm round her again, while he assured her he did want her,
and that she was an angel, and other such terms. And by the time she
allowed him to go to his room to dress for dinner, a great measure of
his usual nerve and balance was restored. She had not given him a moment
to think, even shaking her finger at him and saying that if he was more
than twenty minutes dressing, she would herself come and fetch him and
bring him back to her room.

Then, when he had left her, this true daughter of Eve, after ordering
dinner to be served to them, proceeded to make herself as beautiful as
possible for the next scene. She felt radiant. It was enormous what she
had done.

"Why, he was on the verge of suicide!" she said to herself, "and now he
is almost ready to smile. Before the evening is over I shall have made
him kiss me--and before a month is past we shall be engaged. What
perfect nonsense to have silly mawkish sentiment over anything! The
thing to do is to win one's game."