The Man and the Moment Part 28

"We had no discussions of any kind. She was particularly sweet, and spent nearly the whole evening with me, as you know. Is it something about her husband, do you think, which is troubling her? But it cannot be that, because in her letter of two days ago she said the proceedings had been started and she would be free perhaps by Christmastime, as all was being hurried through."

Moravia gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Sabine is certainly very strange. Can you believe it? She has never mentioned the matter to me since we returned, and once when I spoke of it, she put the subject aside. She did not 'wish to remember it,' she said."

"It is evidently that, then, and we must have patience with the dear little girl. The husband must have been an unmitigated wretch to have left such a deep scar upon her life."

"But she never saw him from the day after she was married!" Moravia exclaimed; and then pulled herself up short, glancing at Henry furtively. What had Sabine told him? Probably no more than she had told her--she felt the subject was dangerous ground, and it would be wiser to avoid further discussion upon the matter. So she remarked casually:

"No, after all, I do not believe it has anything to do with the husband; it is just a mood. She has always had moods for years. I know she is looking forward awfully to our all going to her for Christmas. Then you will be able to clear away all your clouds."

But this conversation left Henry very troubled, and Pere Anselme's words about the cinders still being red kept recurring to him with increasing pain.

Sabine had been at Heronac for ten days when the old priest got back to his flock. It was toward the end of November, and the weather was one raging storm of rain and wind. The surf boiled round the base of the Castle and the waves rose as giant foes ready to attack. It comforted the mistress of it to stand upon the causeway bridge and get soaking wet--or to sit in one of the mullioned windows of her great sitting-room and watch the angry water thundering beneath. And here the Pere Anselme found her on the morning after his return.

She rose quickly in gladness to meet him, and they sat down together again.

She spoke her sympathy for this bereavement which had caused his absence, but he said with grave peace:

"She is well, my sister--a martyr in life, she has paid her debt. I have no grief."

So they talked about the garden, and of the fisher-folk, and their winter needs. There had been a wreck of a fis.h.i.+ng boat, and a wife and children would be hungry but for the kindness of their Dame d'Heronac.

Then there was a pause--not one of those calm, happy pauses of other days, when each one dreamed, but a pause wrought with unease. The Cure's old black eyes had a questioning expression, and then he asked:

"And what is it, my daughter? Your heart is not at rest."

But Sabine could not answer him. Her long-controlled anguish won the day and, as once before, she burst into a pa.s.sion of tears.

The Pere Anselme did not seek to comfort her; he knew women well--she would be calmer presently, and would tell him what her sorrow was. He only murmured some words in Latin and looked out on the sea.

Presently the sobs ceased and the Dame d'Heronac rose quickly and left the room; and when she had mastered her emotion, she came back again.

"My father," she said, sitting on a low stool at his knees, "I have been very foolish and very wicked--but I cannot talk about it. Let us begin to read."

CHAPTER XIX

Meanwhile the divorce affair went on apace. There was no defence, of course, and Michael's lawyers were clever and his own influence was great. So freedom would come before the end of term probably, if not early in the New Year, and Henry felt he might begin to ask his beloved one to name a date when he could call her his own, and endeavor to take every shadow from her life.

His letters all this month had been more than extra tender and devoted, each one showing that his whole desire was only for Sabine's welfare, and each one, as she read it, put a fresh stab into her heart and seemed like an extra fetter in the chain binding her to him.

She knew she was really the mainspring of his life and she could not, did not, dare to face what might be the consequence of her parting from him. Besides, the die was cast and she must have the courage to go through with it.

Mr. Parsons had let her know definitely that the bare fact of her name would appear in the papers, and nothing more; and at first the thought came to her that if it had made no impression upon Henry's memory, when he must have read it originally in the notice of the marriage, why should it strike him now? But this was too slender a thread to hang hope upon, and it would be wiser and better for them all if when Lord Fordyce came with Moravia and Girolamo and Mr. Cloudwater at Christmas, she told him the whole truth. The dread of this augmented day by day, until it became a nightmare and she had to use the whole force of her will to keep even an outward semblance of calm.

Thoughts of Michael she dismissed as well as she could, but she had pa.s.sionate longings to go and take out the blue enamel locket from her despatch-box and look at it once more; she would not permit herself to indulge in this weakness, though. Her whole days were ruled with sternest discipline until she became quite thin, and the Pere Anselme grew worried about her.

A fortnight went by; it was growing near to Christmastime--but the atmosphere of Heronac contained no peace, and one bleak afternoon the old priest paced the long walk in the garden with knitted brows. He did not feel altogether sure as to what was his duty. He was always on the side of leaving things in the hand of the good G.o.d, but it might be that he would be selected to be an instrument of fate, since he seemed the only detached person with any authority in the affair.

His Dame d'Heronac had tried hard to be natural and her old self, he could see that, but her taste in their reading had been over much directed to Heine, she having brought French translations of this poet's works back with her from Paris.

Twice also had she asked him to recite to her De Musset's "_La Nuit de Decembre_." He did not consider these as satisfactory symptoms. There was no question in his astute mind as to what was the general cause of his beloved lady's unrest. The change in her had begun to take place ever since the fatal visit of the two Englishmen. Herein lay matter for thought. For the very morning before their arrival she had been particularly bright and gay, telling him of her intended action in making arrangements to free herself from her empty marriage bonds, and apparently contemplating a new life with Lord Fordyce with satisfaction.

Pere Anselme was a great student of Voltaire and looked upon his tale of "Zadig" as one from which much benefit could be derived. And now he began to put the method of this citizen of Babylon into practice, never having heard of the immortal Sherlock Holmes.

The end of his cogitations directed upon this principle brought him two concrete facts.

Number one: That Sabine had been deeply affected by the presence of the second Englishman--the handsome and vital young man--and number two: That she was now certainly regretting that she was going to obtain her divorce. Further use of Zadig's deductive method produced the conviction that, as an abstract young man would be equally out of reach were she still bound to her husband--or married to Lord Fordyce--and could only be obtained were she divorced--some other reason for her distaste and evident depression about this latter state coming to her must be looked for, and could only be found in the supposition that the Seigneur of Arranstoun might be himself her husband! Why, then, this mystery? Why had not he and she told the truth? Zadig's counsel could not help him to unravel this point, and he continued to pace the walk with impatient sighs.

He was even more of a gentleman than of a priest, and therefore forbore to question Sabine directly, but that afternoon, with the intention of directing her mind into facing eventualities, he had talked of Lord Fordyce, and what would be the duties of her future position as his wife. Sabine replied without enthusiasm in her tones, while her words gave a picture of all that any woman's heart could desire:

"He is a very fine character, it would seem," the Pere Anselme said.

"And he loves you with a deep devotion."

Sabine clasped her hands suddenly, as though the thought gave her physical pain.

"He loves me too much, Father; no woman should be loved like that; it fills her with fear."

"Fear of what?"

"Fear of failing to come up to the standard of his ideal of her--fear of breaking his heart."

"I told him in the beginning it were wiser to be certain all cinders were cold before embarking upon fresh ties," Pere Anselme remarked meditatively, "and he a.s.sured me that he would ascertain facts, and whether or no you felt he could make you happy."

"And he did," Sabine's voice was strained. "And I told him that he could--if he would help me to forget--and I gave him my word and let him--kiss me, Father--so I am bound to him irrevocably, as you can see."

"It would seem so."

There was a pause, and then the priest got up and held his thin brown hands to the blaze, his eyes averted from her while he spoke.

"You must look to the end, my daughter, and ask yourself whether or no you will be strong enough to play your part in the years which are coming--since, from what I can judge, the embers are not yet cold.

Temptation will arm for you with increasing strength. What then?"

"I do--not know," Sabine whispered hardly aloud.

"It will be necessary to be quite sure, my daughter, before you again make vows."

And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when he intended what he had said to sink deeply into the heart of his listener.

But just as he was leaving after tea he drew the heavy curtains back from one of the great windows. All was inky darkness, and the roaring of the sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like the menacing voices of an angry crowd.

"The good G.o.d can calm even this rough water," he said. "It would be well that you ask for guidance, my child, and when it has come to you, hesitate no more."

Then, making his sign of blessing, he rapidly strode to the door, leaving the Dame d'Heronac crouched upon the velvet window-seat, peering out upon the waves.