“Sabine,” Henry said, “I want you to be very happy on this Christmas day, and so I have brought your husband back to you.  All these foolish divorce proceedings are going to be stopped, and you and he can settle all your differences, together, dear—­” then, as a glad cry forced itself from Sabine’s lips—­his voice broke with emotion.  She stretched out her hands to him, and he took one and drew her to Michael, who stood behind him.

Then he took also his old friend’s hand, and clasped it upon Sabine’s.

“I am not much of a churchman,” he said, hoarsely, “but this part of the marriage service is true, I expect.  ’Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’” Then he dropped their hands, and turned toward the door.

“Oh!  Henry, you are so good to us!” Sabine cried.  “No words can say what I feel.”

But Lord Fordyce could bear no more—­and murmuring some kind of blessing, he got from the room, leaving the two there in the embrasure of the great window gazing into each other’s eyes.

As the door shut, Michael spoke at last: 

“Sabine—­My own!” he whispered, and held out his arms.

* * * * *

When Henry left Sabine’s sitting-room, he staggered down the stairs like one blind—­the poignant anguish had returned, and the mantle of comfort fell from his shoulders.  He was human, after all, and the picture of the rapture on the faces of the two, showing him what he had never obtained, stabbed him like a knife.  He felt that he would willingly drop over the causeway bridge into the boiling sea, and finish all the pain.  He saw Moravia’s blue velvet dress in the distance down the road when he left the lodge gates, and he fled into the garden; he must be alone—­but she had seen him go, and knew that another crisis had come and that she must conquer this time also.  So apparently only for the gratification of Girolamo, she turned and entered the garden—­the garden which seemed to be a predestined spot for the stratagems of lovers!—­then she strolled toward the sea-wall, not turning her head in the direction where she plainly perceived Henry had gone, but taking care that Girolamo should see him, as she knew he would run to him.  This he immediately did, and dragged his victim back to his mother in the pavilion which looked out over the sea.  Girolamo was now three years old and a considerable imp; he displayed Henry proudly and boasted of his catch—­while Moravia scolded him sweetly and asked Henry to forgive them for intruding upon his solitude.

“You know I understand you must want to be alone, dear friend, and I would not have come if I had seen you,” she said, tenderly, while she turned and, leaning out, beckoned to the nurse, whom she could just see across the causeway on the courtyard wall, where the raised parapet was.  Then allowing her feelings to overcome her judgment, she flung out her arms and seizing Henry’s hands, she drew them into her warm, huge muff.