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 sittingroom 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.
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.